


Kecharitomene

by asperah



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, And he's not happy about it, Arranged Marriage, Everyone Is Alive, Explicit Content will happen later, F/M, Gendry is a Baratheon, Lyanna still dies but the rebellion never happened, Mutual Pining, Pirates, Queen Elia Martell, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Southern Alliance theory, follows the book characterizations, i wrote this listening to loreena mckennitt, lots of celtic vibes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-29
Updated: 2019-09-05
Packaged: 2020-05-29 18:10:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 38,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19405507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asperah/pseuds/asperah
Summary: Rickard Stark would not relent. He broke the silence and continued on. “You will not isolate the North. Instead, you will carry on my good work. You will build it up and make it stronger. Have many children. Marry them to great houses as I have done for you. To heirs with wealth and power. Make our pack bigger and grander than ever before; send your wolf pups to rivers, deserts, and gardens, from the peaks of the highest mountains to the depths of the stormy seas. Let them grow and conquer. Surround the dragon, make it see that it is not the only beast that can wield the power of fear.”The Stark sisters are sent south to don heavy cloaks made from ink and gold, to rule over stormy shores and open seas.Alternate Universe, Gendrya & TheonsaChapter 4: Sansa POV





	1. prelude

The night that took Lord Rickard Stark was dark and terrible, indeed. The pale moon was hardly visible under the field of grey clouds that loomed over freshly chilled woods from the icy storms that reigned over the north, day after day; grass, moot and bracken hung heavy with ice. The enduring cold winds that stretched throughout the northern lands emerged from beyond the wall, its frigid force slowing during the morning hours of light, but then strengthened once again as darkness descended across the fields. Clutching their woolen blankets to their shaking bodies, the smallfolk mournfully whispered that winter was arriving at last, but the older and wiser bristled in silence. Faces with lines and wrinkles or warts knew better, their skin had felt the icy air before. 

_Only a summers cold_ , they murmured to themselves. For if Winter came, the days would be shorter, the lakes and waters in the ocean would freeze over, and the lands would be covered in a thick sheet of snow. 

Yet the mummers winter still breached the ancient walls of Winterfell. In that castle, there was a great lord inside, waiting to die. 

A grey wolf lay on a mountain of furs, his head resting on goose filled pillows and silk linen. He simpered and shook, face hot with a terrible sweat that would not break. Measter Luwin bent down to with a wet cloth drenched in cold water and tapped it gingerly on his forehead. As he removed the cloth, his eyes inspected the state of his liege lord, he frowned sadly. 

“There isn’t much time left, my lord,” Measter Luwin said softly. 

Lord Richard Stark heaved to take a breath, his lung tight and small. Eyes wide, he fervently scanned the objects around the room but did not move his head out of weakness. “Eddard,” he croaked and paused. “Ned…today is my final day, my son. I will have no more of this. The fever will take me before the night is over.” 

His son, Eddard Stark, kneeled at the side of his father’s bed, grasping a damp palm with both his hands. 

Catelyn Stark stood a few feet away from the scene, watching with careful intention and tired eyes. Her long auburn hair, though fashioned into a northern braid that reached the lower end of her back, was unkept and messy after many nights with no sleep. Thousands of single frizzy strands were released from the once intricately tight design, all pointing into different directions. 

With two hungry infants and one ill father, the heir of Winterfell and his lady had not slept for many nights. 

Solemn and teary, Eddard mustered up the strength to speak. “Please father.” 

Rickard held his son’s gaze, but did not respond to his strained pleas, “I will hear no more. You must listen.” Almost in a trance, the older man’s gray eyes lingered steadily on the grim features of Eddard’s face and then moved sharply to fix upon Catelyn. “You both must listen….Lyanna…Brandon,” he whimpered and paused with tears forming on the edges of the crimson rimmed waterline, the whites of his eyes laced with miniscule red threads; pupils full and round. 

At the whispered mention of his departed brother and sister, Eddard held his head low, staring at the wooden floors beneath. All that is left of them is bones, charred bones and burned flesh…bones and a kept promise. His father continued on, “the north remembers, the north will never forget. You must make it so, my son. The realm will never be truly safe from danger when a dragon sits on the throne.” 

The absolute look of rage and revenge that permeated through his father’s countenance was palpable. In an attempt to placate his father’s spiteful speech, Eddard responded softly, “the bloodshed is over, father. Peace is on the horizon and rising.” 

“No, no, no, my son,” Rickard hissed loudly as Measter Luwin quietly began preparing the milk of the poppy on the tableside a few feet away from the bed, crushing up multiple cream colour flowered seed-heads with a mortar and pestle. “The day of the dragon is not over. Bloodshed is not over. When dragons dance in the skies, up and over the lands of men, the rest of the world tumbles into misery and ashes in its shadowy stead. Honourable knights become blackened corpses, women become weeping widows clutching a fatherless babe to their breast, and children grow to learn only fear. For what is a dragon without fear? It consumes it, lives upon it, relishes it. With fear it is free…free to spread its fire from south to north and west to east. So what then, is a man to do but to break the weight of terror? We must chain the creature, bind it to the rules and laws of men. Break the power down to save the realm.” 

“Father, the Dornish princess survived,” said Eddard Stark with a stern frown. “Elia Martell sits on the throne as queen regent. She is kind and good. The north have no need to be frightened under her rule. It is time to rest.” 

It was true enough. When the former king descended into madness, the suspicions of collusion and treason broke the final remnants of sanity the realm had tried to contain. On the day when the emerald embers melted down the beautiful silver-haired Rhaegar Targaryen in the wildfire pit upon the orders of the Mad King, chaos consumed the seven kingdoms. Despite several loyalists who followed the mad king out of fear, the great houses united with the single purpose of unseating the terror perched on the iron throne. By the end of it all, the southern civil wars in the crownlands ended with an old king burning portions of King’s Landing as Lord Tywin Lannister of Casterly Rock sieged the city under a suns’ promise. 

The large town had fallen in fits of fire and smoke during the night hours, but by morning the mad king was dead and the unbroken princess from Dorne ascended, walking through the ashen streets of the city, with two children and two infants in tow. 

_The sun may have a crown upon her head now, but the woman will mean nothing after the four dragons being nursed in her arms have grown,_ Catelyn thought gravely, still standing behind her husband’s shoulder, _they will rise up again and quickly_. Queen Elia’s son, the crowned prince Aegon and her daughter Rhaenys survived along with the mad king’s two remaining children. 

A Targaryen king will take back the throne before their time is over. 

“I know you, boy. I know that face,” Lord Rickard said sternly. “I see it so clearly. I’ve felt it too. I feel it even now. You are filled with grief. But you and I are different, for I am also filled with hatred. I have lost a daughter and a son. You have lost a sister and a brother. But you? You have settled into regret. You want to hide and mourn, to live your days here and be done with it all. But you will not. There is no honour in a man who hides. A man who does nothing, becomes nothing; he does not keep his family safe.” 

The room was silent. Holding his father’s gaze, Ned Stark did not dare move or speak. His father was right, and he could not protest or deny it. Winterfell was now a quiet and dark place; no lively music permeated through to accompany great feasts in the Great Halls and no children’s laughter or cheer echoed across the granite walls. It was a barren castle and when he arrived with his wife and newborn child, he promised himself he was done with the south. He promised himself he would bring new life back into his home once more. 

No more plots, no more games, no more war. Let the fancy lords from the south meddle themselves into an early grave over their empty lust for power and glory. All Ned wanted now was home, all he wanted was a family to love again. 

But Rickard Stark would not relent. He broke the silence and continued on. “You will not isolate the North. Instead, you will carry on my good work. You will build it up and make it stronger. Have many children. Marry them to great houses as I have done for you. To heirs with wealth and power. Make our pack bigger and grander ever before; send your wolf pups to rivers, deserts, and gardens, from the peaks of the highest mountains to the depths of the stormy seas. Let them grow and conquer. Surround the dragon, make it see that it is not the only beast that can wield the power of fear.” 

Listening intently, Maester Luwin stopped filtering the white liquid mixture with a cotton cloth with a quiet grace, and began to stir the concoction with a metal ladle in a counter-clockwise direction into a small wooden bowl. The mixture had a potent stench that permeated through the room. The animalic odor was foul smelling, indolent musk and a hint of pine and lavender. When the aroma reached the nostrils of Lord Stark, he responded to the unappealing scent with a particularly hoarse cough, followed by a loud sneeze. The violent outburst sent a mist of mucus and sweat that dispersed onto the furred blankets that were wrapped tight around the man’s frail, hot body. 

Once Rickard’s composure stilled, he fixed his stare onto his son once again. “Promise me, Ned. Promise me that you will do this. Swear it, by the old gods.” 

The words that Lord Stark used pierced through Ned like a thick, dull needle to the heart. His throat suddenly felt very tight, as if the force of the entire world constricted against the surrounding skin of his neck, pushing through on all sides to block the airflow completely. Hearing the echo of the plea once more made it impossible to take a breath without coming undone by it all over again. Promise me, it was the same phrase, but they had very different requests. The first promise already been punctured through his body, striking him down with the intent to silence and paralyze him. The second sought to mobilize him, to summon him to act, when he had already vowed to settle contently into inertia. He was struggling to keep both weapons locked inside his chest without bleeding out. 

_He could keep both_ , he reasoned, he could honour the oath made to a beloved sister and respect the wishes of a dying father. 

_I will uphold his wishes_ , he thought. The ghost of Lyanna Stark entered his thoughts, riding a spotted brown mare up and down the streets of winters town, fire in her eyes and mirth under her breath. _I will kept this promise, but I will marry them right and I will marry them well._

“I swear it, father.” 

“Good,” Lord Rickard huffed loudly, proceeding to cough several more times, his strength fading by the minute. Measter Luwin used the opportunity to break the dialogue between father and son by swiftly placing the edge of the bowl between the lord’s dried, cracked lips. Rickard sipped the cream coloured brew at a slow pace and as the last remnants of the solution disappeared, he sank back down under the fur bedding with a dazed but satisfied expression. 

“Speak to Jon and Hoster. They will know what to do.” 

In a daze but with less pain than before, Lord Rickard speech started to slur, the milk of the poppy guiding him towards field of clouds. “Now…leave me be...leave.” 

Torn between wanting to stay with his father during his final moments of life and wanting to spare himself from witnessing another family member dying before their time was over, he paused for a short while to gaze upon his father’s stern face; cheeks now red and swollen, breathing slowing and beaded sweat running down his wide forehead. No longer able to look, he followed his fatigued wife out the doors. But as he turned his back, his father uttered one more supplication. 

“Use him,” Lord Rickard mumbled weakly, his lids almost closed. “Use the boy if you need to.” 

And so the gray wolf died without seeing the pale moonlight one last time. But it did not deter him from howling one last time; his final cries carrying on as an echo within the walls of Winterfell for many nights to come.


	2. eddard I

Ned Stark walked through the partially uninhabited corridors of Riverrun. 

The castle was an intricate maze, like an old elm tree whose wooden trunk sprouted thousands of branches that stretched endlessly, splitting and growing with no end in sight. Vast and expansive, the old fortress was full of unexpected and undiscovered places, inviting bouts of fanciful exploration to the common man. The marbled coloured and greenish stoned halls lead to polished flights of stairs that spiraled up, down and sideways. Steps opened up to a multitude of doorways that contained an assortment of hidden wonders; wide galleries holding marvelous oiled paintings encapsulated with dark fine oak, courtyards ushering in tunnels that led to the Great Hall, guest rooms built with enormous fireplaces, lofty sitting chambers that featured monstrous hearths, and holy septs where pious visitors could kneel before the Seven. 

At every intersection he passed there were two armoured men standing side by side at the beginning of each threshold. Each time he crossed through, the steadfast guards did not move but nodded and bowed expectantly at him as he ascended further and further into the confines of the castle. On this night, under the orders of their liege lord, Ned Stark was the only man allowed entry through these passageways. 

Though his presence was anticipated and welcomed, he felt nervous, as if he was being forcefully pushed towards a dark den in the middle of the night, filled with an even darker purpose. 

When he finally reached the precipice of his destination, the two final guards on duty, Enger and Long Lew, stood in front of a grand entranceway thirty feet wide. 

The tall hardwood doors were littered with metal ornamentations and armoured plating; shiny handles, bolts, and nails. In the middle, a massive scaled trout painted into bold silver was planted above the highest point of the two doors, overseeing the three men that stood below. Carved into the planks, its mouth was ajar, showing elfin teeth aligned in a neat horizontal row. Silvered ppots speckled throughout the skin of the fish, and the harsh sharp lines mirrored the curved muscles of the large beast to show its forceful might and flexibility as it bent over the hand-drawn waves below. The design on the doors was constructed with artful intent; any lord who wished to converse with the Lord of Riverrun, Paramount of the Trident, would be forced to see a large fish looming beyond him, not below. 

For though a man may look under to see the fish that inhabit the waters of the forked rivers outside these castle walls, he would not look down upon a Tully. 

Long Lew, olive-skinned and lean, bent his pimpled face low at the sight of the lord approaching. He then turned in a frantic hurry to knock on the door three times. Enger, who was significantly older than his companion, stayed uncommonly still and dormant. After the third bang, the young guard paused and listened for a moment before hearing a muffled shout from within. The low rumbling voice inside cued Long Lew to swiftly open just one of the doors – breaking the fish etched high above – and then discretely moved out of the way for Ned to enter the solar. 

An enormous circular room greeted Ned Stark with warmth, oscillating the smell of smoke. Its stone structure illuminated by the firelight glow that crackled and roared from the massive inglenook situated on the left side of the wall. The solar had grey stoned walls, with a multi-colored peacock ceiling heavy with blues and reds. Heavy tapestries festooned across the room held images of fish of every shape and size. In the corner on the right hand side, was a long table with heaps of blank parchment, letters, quills and ink containers made clear through the wax filled candelabras placed on the ends of the desk. 

Outside, a conglomerate of sounds resonated from the exteriors of the castle. Intoxication filling the night; clangs, blares, rings, songs, a running river and laughter mixed together as one to salute the stars scattered in the sky. 

“Wonderful sound, isn’t it?” said Hoster, eyes never leaving the window that surveyed the river outside. “The noise of bustling people moving against the boundaries of the calmer waters. The sounds of life.” 

“The last time I hosted a tournament like this one, I was a much younger lord. One with fewer wrinkles and less grey hair,” he laughed, and the smile that drifted upon his face lingered as if his mind was sinking down into the past. “I bought both my daughters up here, let them stay up past their bedtime. Just watched the stream of the Red Fork flow while we listened to the stirring below as the night carried on.” 

“A beautiful sight,” Ned agreed, still tentatively standing a few feet from the entranceway. “No rivers in the north or the rest of the seven kingdoms match the Trident in splendor. It is a pleasure to see it again, and to hear it.” 

At that compliment, Hoster broke his reverence to face his visitor, lifting his mouth into a grin. The freckled old man gestured for Ned to sit down on the empty cushioned chair that was placed next to him. “Come,” he genially beckoned with his hands. “The fire is warm.” 

Ned walked forward, his now dried muddied leather boots left no marks on the intricately woven cerulean rug adorned with deep red plum tassels frayed on the sides of the fabric that laid at the feet of Hoster Tully. The seat next to him was an identical twin, in make and model; ruby down feather-stuffed cushions atop furnished ebony wood. 

Despite the hot air and hospitable ambience of the room, Ned felt his body become chill. Looking at the chair, he suddenly sensed as though he was being sent to the executioner, waiting for his sentence to be read out to him – that if he sat there, the life he had would change irrevocably; pieces of himself would be lost. 

_I am not the one on trial tonight_ , he thought bitterly, _my children are._

Images of his children filtered through his mind without warning; Arya scampering through the Wolfswood as a toddler handing him violet flowers, wearing a toothy grin. Sansa practicing her curtsies in front of Septa Mordane, later standing proud and tall as she recited her history lessons on Bran The Builder and Aegon’s Conquest to Catelyn and Ned after her lessons were complete. Robb and Jon patiently instructing Bran to shoot a bow as an unruly Rickon beamed along the fence line of the courtyard. 

On this night he would lose them to a fathers wish, on this night his little ones would be players in a game that moved them all to different ends of the world, away from him. 

No, he did not want to sit down - but the feet attached to his body did not seem to stop its pace, the whispers of his dead kin edged him further on. 

_Promise me, Ned. Promise me._

“I trust you did not get lost on your way,” said Hoster, speaking softly. 

“I remember it well.” 

“Good,” he replied as Ned finally took his seat beside his father-in-law. “I suspect that the festivities down below will carry on for several hours, particularly for the Tyrell bannerman. Guards have been situated on every passageway attached this solar. We shan’t be heard or disturbed.” 

Ned nodded slowly as the mixture of thrumming drums and lutes carried on a tune that swam against the drunk laughter and merriment that vibrated outside. When Ser Loras Tyrell singlehandedly unseated the great Thoros of Myr in the preliminary jousting rounds, the crowds of smallfolk and noblemen erupted in cheers as the handsome curly-haired knight galloped along the paved down fields on his white mare to bow to the assembly of admirers perched in the stands. Ladies cooed dreamily as he took several white and red roses from his squire and gifted them to three maidens. 

The first day of tourney celebrations had then commenced with a boisterous ceilidh that lasted well into the night; blushing fair maids waltzed on the damp green grass with knights, older lords gulped down pints of sweet Arbor wine, orators reciting the tales of old for a septon or two from a passerby. As Ned left the gathering, Lord Robert Baratheon teetered back and forth with a newly filled goblet of spiced ale, toasting his old friend as he headed towards the sluice gates that bridged together land and fortress. “Come find me after, brother,” he bellowed and chortled loudly. “This is truly a night to celebrate!” 

_Yes,_ he thought inwardly, _a night to celebrate and scheme._ A momentous reception, a carefully painted façade for noblemen to enter into dialogues of alliance and marriage. Looking through the thinly veiled guise of stouthearted men breaking swords and armour for the chance to win the title of champion revealed older lords plotting, playing the role of matchmaker in secret dark corners; pointing fingers at the shadows of sons and daughters, penning the future. Ned Stark paved a pathway for one of children tonight, and he was certain he would write a few more before the night was over. 

“How are the newlyweds fairing?” Hoster asked, sipping a cup of boiled lemon water. The fire was burning strong and steady. 

“It will take time, but the worst is over,” replied Ned, taking an extra goblet and poured himself some dark red wine from the tumbler that was placed at the table between the two chairs. Too many cups for one day, but he felt as though the extra courage the liquid would give him was necessary. “It is hard to live with a stranger, harder still with one that now sleeps in your bed.” 

When Ned Stark has announced the betrothal between his eldest son, Robb Stark and the firstborn daughter of Howland Reed, the northmen were pleasantly surprised with the decision. Rumours of another southern bride being presented had dispersed across the north, which made noblehouses and loyal bannerman hesitate in bringing their own daughters forth to Winterfell in attempt to facilitate a courtship with the heir. Catelyn will refuse them all, they said with a scowl, only wealthy girl from the south will do. 

And they were right. However, the endeavor to sway foreign lords to part with their daughters ultimately failed. And after careful thought and consideration, Meera Reed, was selected as Robb Stark’s bride to be.

From the beginning, Catelyn was vehemently against the match. She stood gobsmacked in her light blue nightgown, beautiful as ever, when he broke the news, “A swamp girl, for our son?” 

She argued, arms gesticulating with wide eyes, and cursed against the engagement. Selling the future lord of Winterfell, the Warden of the North, to a woman birthed from the marshes of the Neck, would be an insult to the memory of his father…it would spit on the promise he had made, she had announced brazenly. Ned had reasoned with her, they had tried for years. Sent a raven to every great holdfast in Westeros. The only reply was ‘no…we are waiting.’ 

They were all waiting, except for the woman who bravely traversed through the swamplands with the threat of alligators concealed in opaque waters. Sure-footed with curly brown tendrils, Meera Reed confidently led her black courser towards their great castle, her father and younger brother riding next to her. As she stepped in front of the Starks to meet her future husband, head held high and spear nestled comfortably close behind her back, and she bowed and voiced pretty pleasantries to all who stood. 

“I doubt that will be the fate of Robb and Meera,” Hoster reassured and Ned could not help but nod his head in agreement. The courtship was brief at the start; tentative hands brushing, skin on skin, stealing silent looks across the table. 

But it was not long enough. The marriage ceremony took place, and the two standing rigid – side by side – dutifully repeated their oaths in front of the godswood under a hollow breath. 

By sunrise the next day, the relationship took the form of a hunt; he was determined to will her into faltering…into blushing or stammering at his wry words and gentle touches. But Meera was subterfuge incarnate. Each step he took, she was two paces ahead of him. Before long, the young man had realized that he had been tricked into a cage, imprisoned by a more accomplished trapper, unable to move. In the hours of dawn, a dewy mist shifting past the morning air, the crannogwoman sharpened the tip of her long spear in the courtyard, and her husband looked on, cheeks scarlet and eyes wanton. 

Her prey had been caught at last. 

“Has Cat warmed to the girl yet?” Hoster asked. 

“Not yet,” Ned replied with a sigh, keeping the goblet rested on his knee. “But her anger is more towards me than it is to her. She wanted a southern bride.” 

“She was right to want one,” he agreed, with a sense of pride, before his drink to his lips to take another swing of water. “Winterfell is an attractive prize. Under different circumstances, it would have been simple venture to arrange a match with a southern highborn. Though Meera is comely – a true northern woman from the Neck – there are certainly several ladies that would be a much more suitable match for Robb than a dowry from the marshlands of Greywater Watch. No…an isolated marriage that does not extend our ambitions.” 

Hoster paused for a moment and then continued on, “however, it is not unwise to establish internal stability…to prevent offending your sworn bannerman before arrangements to lords from foreign lands are pursued further. Also….as we have discussed through our written correspondence, no highborn lord is willing to part with their daughters when the king remains unwed. Queen is a greater title than lady.” 

That was the crux of their current dilemma. A smoke containing a power that could be held; the possibility of filling an unoccupied seat next to the king reaps greater outcomes than a winter stronghold could ever assure. 

“What of Arianne Martell?” 

On the day that Queen Elia Martell ascended the throne as regent, more than a decade ago, the speculation of wedding arrangements for her infant boy – the heir – had budded swiftly from the pale, burned grounds of King’s Landing. Desperate lords unveiled female babes at her feet, arms outstretching, offering their daughter to the sun, swearing the child would grow to be beautiful, enough for a dragon to steal. 

The ambitions proved to be futile; it was insisted upon that the future queen would hail from Dorne. 

So Princess Arianne Martell, no more than a child, round and gawky, was shipped to the capital. The matter was settled, and the rest of the lords went quiet. 

But now, years later, in the absence of ceremony and consummation, the silence was breaking. Whisperings took flight, and feathers ruffled in excitement. 

“Sources say that the courtship has turned quite sour,” Hoster revealed with a twinkle in his eyes. “Though the two make a radiant pair, any spark that between them has been burned. King Aegon has wit and generosity in his bones, but he is naturally capricious at heart. Grows bored easily. Every night, his violet eyes gaze upon a new pretty maid to charm and bed. A more feeble woman might have turned a blind eye to these habits…But the Dornish princess is no feeble woman. She is proud and stubborn, and refuses to play second fiddle to any man. Even the king.”

“Then she’ll leave the crownlands,” Ned surmised. Sunlight does not need to shed its glowing rays on the skin of an ungrateful man. Let the king feel the night stirring around him. “When?” 

“My informants are unclear on the timing,” explained Hoster, whose spies were unnamed and faceless, but littered throughout the Red Keep. Runny nosed cupbearers, supple whores, and brittle scullery laborers; all of them willing to make extra coin in exchange for information. “The queen regent has been careful in her attempts to stop the news of the princess’ upcoming departure from spreading throughout the realm. Breaking a betrothal is an embarrassment for Dorne…as you have already discovered yourself.” 

_Yes, I know the pain all too well,_ Ned thought. He remembered his fists clenched so hard, enough to break his fingers, as his wife cleaned the red markings on his daughters pale skin with a hot towel. ‘I’ll find you a better man,’ he swore to Sansa as she sobbed, ‘someone who is brave and honest and true.’ Joffrey Hightower, the golden boy with a fair complexion, feigned love to disguise cruelty. Going through the match would have been worse.

The forced parting caused offense, for both houses. Ned had smeared a permanent black ink on one of the most powerful houses from the Reach. Cersei Hightower demurely denied the crime, green eyes shining with hidden malice, insisting that her son was innocent. ‘A lustful man in the streets hoping to take her maidenhead,’ she remarked casually, ‘a mere accident.’ She would tell any man, women and child that her child was harmless. But the north remembers, and bruises on cheeks and fists did not lie. The rest of Westeros would not forget that demon harmed his daughter. 

Hoster Tully gave a compassionate look to Ned, no doubt regretful that he had pointed out unhealed trauma, but carried on in a level tone, “House Martell always wanted their lineage tied to the throne, just as closely as the dragons. The sun is always higher in the sky than a dragon….Prince Doran is not pleased in the slightest. Especially now that Princess Rhaenys has been given to House Tyrell.” 

Those last words stung, and Hoster had spit them out of his mouth as if he had tasted something particularly unpleasant. With the heir to Highgarden taken off the market as an option for the southern alliance, the Reach had broken an essential component of the manifesto that Hoster Tully had desperately wished for: all kingdoms torn from the iron throne, all kingdoms united under liberty and independence. Ned Stark knew the dream would never materialize; Doran Martell, Mace Tyrell, and Tywin Lannister seemed to vibrate with contrary ambitions, eyes focused on dancing with dragons. 

“What does that mean for us?” Ned inquired. 

“A loss for one is a profit to others,” he remarked, keeping a subtle smile stitched on his wrinkled countenance. “The clock is ticking faster and the king needs to settle down soon. The queen regent will be forced to look outside her own house for a match. She will send ravens to each and every noble holdfast in Westeros, inviting all to large tourney – more grand and splendid than this one – that will be announced to celebrate the kings name-day. Beautiful young highborn maidens, flowered and unflowered, will flock to the Red Keep for the opportunity to wear the crown. By the end of the lengthy tournament…the king will announce his bride.” 

Only one woman would be queen, the rest would have to settle being a lady. 

And male heirs were lined up, determined and impatient from the wait. 

Ned voiced these musings aloud, “and the fathers and brothers of those ladies will also attend.” 

“Quite right. When the dragon feasts, the vultures will be close behind to pick up the scraps,” Hoster grinned knowingly, because no matter the decision the king made, the most of the lords playing the game of thrones would lose; anger and disappointment was inevitable. More outrage would erupt should the king refuse to decide. An environment ripe for the southern alliances to take advantage. “You will bring your daughters. There we will begin our work in bringing in the more great houses into our coalition.” 

“Arya does not need to come after all.” 

Hoster shifted abruptly in his chair with glee at this new information, “Aha! So Robert spoke to you, I presume.” Ned nodded, somewhat abashed that his father-in-law had accurately surmised the intentions of his old friend. Outside, a male vocalist had begun trilling a melody with a flute, softly humming a verse in tandem with the tune that Ned could barely recognize; one with a yellow silk dress and grassbound hair. 

“I thought as much,” he lamented, staring wistfully at the embers dampening in the hearth. “There is something about that girl of yours…Something I cannot place. The moment I beheld that she-wolf at my gates yesterday, I knew she would be the one to tempt House Baratheon into a union. Cold grey eyes, a blue rose… unmeasurable charm. And all within a day too!” 

It was quick and expected, but nevertheless terrifying. 

The tournament marked the official presentation of Arya Stark, his youngest daughter, to the rest of the southern courts. Robert Baratheon was practically struck into stone when Ned took his seat in the stands during the first rounds of jousting earlier today, his two daughters sitting one each side. Men were brutally knocked off horses with long sharply tipped lances, blood sputtered from arteries and limbs broke with a snap. The sights alone should have garnered loud jeers from the Lord of Storm’s End, but the burly man paid the players no mind, drinking his mead deep, stare fastened to Arya behind the rims of the tankard. 

“She’s perfect, Ned,” Robert said to him afterward, when the rounds of jousting commenced and the skies shifted into dusk, marking the night’s festivities. “Where the hell have you been hiding her?” 

_Away from the world,_ he thought. _I’d keep her forever if I could._

Arya had been cut from the same thread as his dearly departed sister. The same wild wolf blood coursing through their blue veins, only his daughter had matured into a creature that now far exceeded Lyanna in beauty, skill and accomplishment. Both similar yet different; a mirror in the water with ripples cascading throughout the image. Or an echo that continued that to repeat a dead voice, but with more strength and vigor than its originator. 

Lyanna was a memory, but Arya was still real and very much alive. 

The request Robert made more of an attempt to recapture a life that failed to formulate. “We should have been bound by blood, you and I,” he declared as they drank together in an open tent that bustled with traffic. Servants dropped platters filled with sweet raison hot cakes, charred salmon and greens boiled with fresh herbs onto tables, and refilled ale back into empty glasses. 

“We should have been brothers years ago,” Robert said wistfully. “But it’s not too late. I have a son, you have a daughter….we’ll join our houses.” 

And just like that, the deed was done. 

Stated as fact, no question from his friend and no answer from him. ‘No’ was not an option. The stags had wanted a she-wolf for years, she was owed to them. The debt must be paid. Arya would become a Baratheon. The replacement piece. A great sadness had lingered in the air, as his daughter was now fulfilling an uncharted path that his sister had ultimately abandoned. 

_You have deceived him,_ he reminded himself as they clanged their drinks together to finalize the engagement. Robert’s eyes the shape of half-moons. _He has lived based on a lie. Give him this one thing._

“This is wonderful news, Ned,” Hoster chimed into his ruminations. “While our three houses have carried a friendly affiliation, it serves us well to have the Storm’s End officially attached through marriage…very well indeed, especially considering its lands have become much richer and more formidable over these last few years.” 

It was true. Robert Baratheon had made the stormlands a prosperous state with the help of his two younger brothers, which proved to be an accomplished feat based on the landscape. Storms break things down rather than build - yet the three brothers found a way, molding the environment to reflect the city of Arbor; a station for trade. A road linking together Bronzegate, Fellwood, Grandview, Crow’s Nest, and Mistywood was created to connect to Boneway, and then towards the infamous Summerhall, encouraging the market to flow from town to town. Large fortresses were built throughout, contain woodcutting and stamp mills for lumber and mining in order to increase the numbers of material to export. 

The port in Stonehelm was extended, making the river between it and Grandview navigable for trade with cities from Myr, Tyrosh, Pentos and Lys. The new infrastructure created an influx of traffic; an urban centre that melted the East and the West into one multicultural boiling pot. Pleasure houses, shipbuilders, cargo stations and merchants stretched along the line of the widened waterway. Mercenary work was also encouraged and a company was formed called _The Antari,_ captained by Ronnet Connington. Groundbases were set up for weathly men in the disputed lands to buy or sell sellswords for a fair price. Finally, the naval fleet grew with formidable strength under the command of Ser Davos Seaworth from Cape Wrath, a retired but accomplished smuggler who could easily navigate through the stormy waters in Shipbreaker Bay. 

Though the progress had taken many years to establish, the three brothers had turned the stormlands into the paramount of shipping and trade. Any nobleborn or smallfolk would state that if any man or woman wished to have a "taste of the Free Cities,” travel to the port in the stormlands, as no other landmark matched it in size and grandeur. 

And Arya Stark would be their lady. 

Lady Arya Baratheon of Storm’s End. 

_It’s a good place for her,_ Ned thought. _She’s a strong one, the stormlanders will respect her._

Hoster proceeded to pour more lemon water into his cup. “Whatever did Wyman Manderly do to that duckling girl,” he said, “thank him for it. Her fosterage at White Harbour has made her to bloom with grace….ferocious enough to run toe to toe with the stags without losing her breath. She was made for this, Ned.” 

The White Harbour fosterage had indeed done her well. 

When he and Catelyn told her the news that she would be sent away to live in White Harbour, she had fought and pleaded with them to change their minds. ‘I’ll learn to stitch well. I won’t muddy the hems of my dress. I’ll bow and curtesy like all the ladies do if I have to. I’ll practice it all! Just don’t send me away,’ she cried out to them as Septa Mordane chided her for speaking out of turn. The other children handled the impending departure differently. Bran whimpered softly, lips quivering with a deep sadness. Robb was stern faced but silent. Sansa stood in the corner, looking pleased and triumphant. Rickon, a toddler at the time, was too young to understand it at all. Jon Snow looked on in the shadows - still as stone - looking physically pained. 

But White Harbour grew on Arya, and the port helped her grow into a lady; enchanting and severe. 

Over the years, after each visit he made, she would blossom and grow. Still wild, but sharp, like a beautiful subtle knife. She retold the old mummer speeches from ‘The Song of Ryone,’ ‘The Conquerors Two Wives,’ and ‘The Merchant’s Lusty Lady,’ with emotional grace and dramatic flair. She understood the medicinal properties of herbs, could identify the fresher pike from a stale ones in the port markets, taught him to play Cyvasse, and learned to speak several different languages; mostly trade tongue and Braavosi. 

Though, perhaps Arya’s greatest strength of all was her waterdancing. 

As a peace offering – in attempt to smooth his relationship over with his daughter for sending her away from Winterfell – Ned financed the lessons she received from Syrio Forel. On his first visit, the Braavosi swordsman had her chasing cats throughout the castle as an exercise. On the last one, she moved agilely in the training yard, taking down several full grown men until she was the last one standing. Then, in her breeches and tunic, she finished with a perfect curtesy and smirked up at her father and Lord Wyman Manderly from the levelled stands above. 

In the room, there was a pause, as though Hoster realized his son-in-law’s silence may be portend for bed news instead of good. “Of course, I assume that you agreed to the proposal?” 

“Aye.” 

A look of pure relief swelled Hoster’s face, and he sank back down into his seat, beaming. “Well done, Ned. Your father would be very proud.” 

“What of the boy?” Ned asked. Two bastard sons made legitimate; one would be heir. “Have you heard anything?” 

He saw the two boys briefly in the morning when the Baratheon hoard arrived, holding flagged banners stained black and gold. 

The two polar from one another in disposition. The younger – an eager looking man, leaner, with large protruding ears peeking out of shaggy dark hair, followed closely behind Stannis Baratheon and his wife, Selyse Florent. Edric Storm, the once-acknowledged bastard, had now taken the name Baratheon with budding pride. In contrast, the older one was much more fierce. He was larger and muscular, and wore a distinctly grim expression that seemed to rest permanently on his handsome, but surly face. 

As the cream coloured destrier carried his fit frame into the castle, it was apparent to all that Gendry Baratheon, the former bastard of Flea Bottom, had no interest in the tournament at Riverrun or the noble families who were participating. 

“Not much,” he said. “He keeps to himself for the most part, locked himself away from all the festivities. Hasn’t acclimated well to our ways. Which is to be expected. Uprooting a bastard boy from the capitol…giving him a name and making him the heir to an entire kingdom in an instant? No, it’s too much for a poor boy to handle without there being any sort of struggle afterwards. It’s like taking a fish out of water and expecting the creature to breathe easy. The whole business was badly handled, very badly handled indeed…An uncommon decision. But the damage is done. Without any male offspring, House Baratheon felt an insurmountable pressure to preserve their bloodline and keep their seat.”

“Two boys are better than one.” Ned added. _Please let this boy be good, let him be just and honorable - for her sake and mine,_ he prayed inwardly, _I will not see my daughter’s skin marred with anger again._

“It won’t be like the last time,” Hoster replied, reading his mind. “With Lyanna and Robert. The past may haunt you but don’t let it rule you. Gendry Baratheon is an enigma to most in the realm, but the heresy is quite promising. Ser Davos Seaworth speaks very fondly of him. The boy prizes a bull-helm and chooses a warhammer as his weapon of choice. They are teaching him the noble way, slowly but surely. Supposedly, he is surprisingly adept at jousting and melee….but also gentle and quiet. And he has no interest in whoring or wine.” 

Ned remained silent. Only time will tell if the boy will be good enough for his daughter. 

He hoped that this time, his judgement would be right. 

“Now, with two of your children spoken for,” Hoster proceeded. “We have four impending nuptials to arrange.” 

The night had already grown darker, the sounds below faded considerably, and he was becoming tired. “Surely any discussion can wait ‘til tomorrow,” Ned protested. “Cat will want to included.” 

“Catelyn will hear our considerations in the morning, and her input will be noted,” Hoster said curtly while getting up from his seat to grab a bundle of kindle and tree logs from the side of the walls. Throwing them into the weak embers, and lingered there to watch the heart of the goals burn the areas of the wood that it touched. “Our dialogue on these matters will continue.” 

Clamoring back into his chair, he went on, “with Arya out of the way…this means your eldest daughter Sansa will be our main focus, who is in the unfortunate position of having a limited number of options under her sleeves. I’ve told you before, but the arrangement you made with Baelor Hightower was less than ideal. I know you agreed for the sake of Sansa’s affections towards Joffrey, but the house still holds its allegiance to House Tyrell. Reach was lost to us the moment the heir to Highgarden draped a cloak of emerald and gold onto the dragon princess’ shoulders,” Hoster said with a great deal of malice. 

It was no secret that his original intentions for Sansa Stark was to have her betrothed to Willas Tyrell. The idea born while she was still in her infancy. But the correspondence between Hoster and Mace Tyrell garnered little progress in terms of establishing a relationship beyond mutual respect. Much to the surprise and displeasure of Hoster, when the topic of marital allegiance slipped into letters, the Lord of Highgarden offered Garlan Tyrell instead. 

Insulted, his father in law discontinued further written communication. 

There would be no convincing the Lord of Highgarden that the North was a more worthy investment than a dragon princess with Valyrian blood.

“Sadly for us…and for Sansa, an acceptable match now is less promising,” said Hoster thoughtfully. “The Stark and Hightower betrothal wasted precious time. Now, Willas Tyrell is unavailable. Jaime Lannister is spoken for, though reluctant to wed. And Robert Arryn is a sickly boy, requiring proper management. The rest are second sons.” 

“Perhaps a second son is a safer choice,” Ned offered hopefully. Give her a less stressful role, he thought, keep her away from all this madness, better for her live out her days under a smaller noble house. Edric Dayne was unmarried, now the Lord of Starfall, a former knight with impeccable manners. Perhaps Ser Domeric Bolton, a melancholy young man from the north, could sing her sweet songs and write her poems. Or Perhaps Tytos Blackwood, he had many sons to spare… 

“No,” Hoster said with a harsh firmness. 

There was a pause in the air, a sense of foreboding that pierced the silence, as if Hoster was attempting to gather sufficient enough strength to speak further on the matter, to voice it into existence. It was apparent that the alternative action that he had devised would not be received well. But Ned could not possibly predict what the plan would be...they had explored every other option. 

How could Hoster refuse a second son or lower tiered house now, when the firstborns heir to the great houses were taken? 

“There is…one first son left,” the words were so delicately spoken, that they were barely audible to Ned. A long pause followed until Hoster took a deep breath and more loudly, “I have received a letter from Pyke.” 

A letter from Pyke. 

From the heir to the Iron Islands. 

Theon Greyjoy, the last living son of Balon Greyjoy. 

The lands and castle of the former Grey King.

The raiders…the rapers. 

Ned’s heart sunk into very bottom of his stomach, sending a unpalatable lurch that forced him to pulled forward into his seat out of absolute shock and surprise. His body internally shaking with a wild rage, repeated the words _‘Sansa for Theon,’_ over and over again like a cursed phrase that his rest of his mind tried to temper, to battle against. _‘Sansa for Theon.’_ The same Theon Greyjoy who frequently made lewd, jesting comments to Robb on all the common whores he had lain with in the past in the Great Hall during feasts; the tits that bounced the best underneath his palms while he fucked them, whose plump lips sucked the hardest and which cunt felt the tightest around his cock. “No, no, I will not… I will not. This is too far, Hoster,” he cautioned, letting the refusal spill out of him like vomit. “I will hear no more.” 

At that, he rose from his seat without another word. No goodbyes. The threshold had been crossed, and line needed to be drawn in the sand. Pardons would be spoken in the morning hours during breakfast when his mind was rid of it. 

“Listen,” Hoster said politely with a frown, but there was an undercurrent of annoyance in his eyes. “You have heard nothing yet. Do not let your prejudices cloud your judgement and reasoning. Open your ears and trust in me.” 

Before he could even provide a retort, Hoster started up again, speaking fast. “The Greyjoys are littering attacks across the Sunset Sea and the East; raiding the coastline. Funnelling coin and steel and gold back to the iron islands. Stealing smallfolk for free labour. You know this, I know this…They are building strength, crafting a grand legacy from the depths of the ocean floors that that we cannot ignore and now it is spreading. Their population is rising to numbers higher than the days prior to the rebellion. Iron Fleet surpasses Redwyne. With every warship, galley and longship assembled, Asha and Theon Greyjoy are silencing the shrill laughter nobleborn lords in the realm once made about their great house. The kraken has awakened, and its dark presence in our waters is not a trifling matter.” 

“The Greyjoys are also ripe for civil war, now that Balon is dead,” Ned argued heatedly with a shout, continuing to stand. “The Crow’s Eye also commands a fleet, his brother serving him. Theon and Asha Greyjoy are far less experienced than their uncles in warfare. Their position as rulers is unstable. Soon the four will collide, and unrest is inevitable. I will not put Sansa in the middle of it.” 

“Asha Greyjoy has already defeated her uncle, Victorian, in the open-sea combat. His metal armour sunk him to the bottom of the ocean floor, the fool,” said Hoster, eyes glimmering as he relayed the news, aware that accounts of the event had not reached the majority of people in Westeros. Hoster was happiest when he knew something everyone else did not. “She has proven herself worthy. The Crow’s Eye has retreated, The Silence sails back to Essos.” 

This was new information, and Ned found himself unable to reply. 

“This is a game that must be won, Ned,” Hoster pleaded. “The rest of the kingdoms have been spoken for. Southern ambitions must now tackle the Westernlands and the Reach. It needs another ally, a strong and flexible one that can command the seas.” 

“It needs a power that does not rape, steal, and beat their women.” 

“We are speaking about one man. You know Theon Greyjoy,” he said. “You have known him longer than his own family. You were his family. You took the boy in, moulded him into the man he is today. Taught him to fight with a sword and ride a horse. A kraken raised by wolves. What purpose would the boy have other than to smooth relations between the Iron Islands and the North? He can still serve that purpose, Ned. Through his friendship with Robb and through marriage with Sansa.” 

_He fled our castle,_ he thought. _Fled in the middle of the night. Back to his real home._

“Theon is no longer under my influence or care.” 

“Ah, but he very much is, Ned,” Hoster said hauntingly. “Very much so. Your influence and control has driven the young man straight to us. When a kraken holds onto its prey it does not let go. Theon Greyjoy has written to me personally. Sent a raven several moons ago, in fact, to make this very request.” 

Ned stared incredulously, gaping. “Theon _asked_ for this?” 

“Yes. He did. And his argument is certainly a convincing one. This marital arrangement will make history throughout the realm. A pact will be signed during the ceremony. No ironborn will lay a finger on the northernmen and its allies. The Greyjoys would be in league with the Starks. Enemies for centuries made into family. With them on our side, we have the greatest fleet in Westeros.” 

Theon asked for the marriage? Organized the match and requested Sansa Stark himself. 

A man did not take his own bride, a match was arranged with the fathers. _Sansa for Theon_ …the boy with the bow and arrow, who went hunting in the woods with his son when he was ten and two, and brought back two ferrets and a rabbit with a look of pride swelling his face. The lurching feeling returned and churned in his stomach. 

“Consider it, Ned. Please,” Hoster said, urging him softly. “You took him in to foster peace within your lands. And now this opportunity sits on our doorstep, offering what you wanted all along. It is a gift that the Warden of the North has never been given. Our forbearers have long since battled the ironborn for hundreds of years. Seize this prize, capture this for the men you and I serve. Trading with the East can begin through our lands, through the stormlands. The Reach would cease to being the ultimate powerhouse in Westeros.” 

“And what will the other kingdoms make of this union, hm?” Ned asked. _They’ll make an enemy of us,_ he thought. “The ironborn have not been kind to the lords of the West. Siding with the ironborn turns acquaintance into a foe.” 

“That is exactly why they make an attractive ally. All of the houses that has aligned themselves with the throne sit along the coastline, exposed and accessible. The marriage will broker a treaty within our houses, a movement towards prosperity and reformation. Cementing an alliance signals to the rest of the realm that after laying with the wolf on land and the fish in the sea, there is no reason to fear the golden kraken sails.”

_Only during times of peace, only if the throne does not give us what we want._

“Unless there is war.” 

“Indeed,” Hoster said curtly. “Tywin Lannister and Mace Tyrell will learn soon that siding with the dragon will only lead to disappointment and chaos. King Aegon will disappoint them both, their fealty will go unnoticed and unrewarded.” 

“Your views on the ironborn has changed in such a short time. Why?” 

“Ha!” Hoster laughed, practically bursting with amusement. “True enough, very true enough. After frequent dialogues with Rodrik Harlaw, I suppose…The Reader - that man is honest, wise and true. I may be a traditionalist, Ned, but my ideals and ambitions carry me forward. Just like your father. I won’t forget, but I can forgive…if the circumstances are favourable.” 

“I cannot make this decision with haste,” Ned reasoned, more to himself than to Hoster. He needed time and sleep. Gods know what Catelyn would say to all of this. “The terms are too simple; one marriage does not solve a conflict stretching out over hundreds of years. His correspondence should have been with me all along. If a man wants any girl, he must be able to look her father in the eye before he is able to wed her. I will hear his proposal, and he will hear my terms and conditions, should I accept the arrangement.” 

“The terms are not entirely simple, this is true,” Hoster said matter-of-factly. “If we are to settle our differences ironborn, there must a deal in place that protects the mainland from harm. Asha Greyjoy and her uncle are very keen on claiming land that can benefit her people moving forward, one that is more hospitable than a mound of iron and salt. Not an exodus to be exact, but an expansion. As it happens, the riverlands have an empty seat that she has shown particular interest in in: Seagard.” 

“Jason Mallister’s old seat?” 

House Mallister had been awarded The Twins after Lord Walder Frey attempted to overthrow Hoster Tully several years ago by demanding they take a larger portion of taxes collected from the bridge. When the dispute did not resolve, the Lord of the Crossing withheld owed coin and took several riverlands lords – including Edmure Tully – as hostage after they paid the toll to cross into the North. A bloodbath followed, with the rest of the Frey clan exiled; many dead but most on the run as outlaws. The women and children were spared, sent to nunneries and households as wards. “No matter the size, sheep still get slaughtered in the end,” Hoster announced when Jason Mallister and his family arrived to claim their new seat and titles. 

“A historically successful port,” Hoster added with pride, looking out into the window to survey the sky as the noise from the crowds below started to quiet down. “Conveniently nestled between the northern and riverlands…and unoccupied. It would be a great reward for House Greyjoy, should they treat Sansa Stark with honour and respect. Dangle that sweet treat in front of their hungry eyes and you should find them to be very agreeable during your negotiations with them.” 

Incredulous, Ned sunk back down on the chair to listen further. The ironborn had historically attempted to own a part of the mainland coast, with some success back in the Age of Heroes, where Harren Hoare claimed the isles and the river as king. The Greyjoys would take a portion of what their old king once owned. Seagard would be a treasured piece of land for a mass of pirates and sailors. _Perhaps too good for the ironborn,_ he thought. 

“Write to them, send a raven tonight,” Hoster carried on. “We can continue to discuss the deal in detail with them at Seagard. Asha and Theon have great plans for the Iron Islands. The ironborn are already reaping the plentiful rewards of their leadership. They may have their fathers blood coursing through their veins, but their minds are singularly different.”

“If that is true,” Ned replied. “The Old Way must go. It must.”

“I agree,” he said, casting his eyes back to the fires. “Nevertheless, the young kings name-day celebrations will still commence. If you should decide to agree to the proposal, bring her to King’s Landing with Arya either way. For if you should you forgo the deal, your eldest should not stay unmarried for much longer. Sansa will have to make due with a lesser house. Whatever you decide, optics is key. The rest of the Westeros will not look down upon us as lesser; the southern blockade will appear strong and affluent to our opposers… Within a fortnight, the most superlative couturiers and lapidaries in the realm will reach Riverrun. They will fit both your daughters, take their measurements and note of their individual preferences. Before the month ends, the two will receive an assortment of the intricately detailed dresses, embroidered garments, and finery.” 

“Hoster…that is too much, surely we - ” 

“Special care with be given to your eldest, of course. Whether you tie her to the Iron Islands or not. Nonetheless, the Stark girls will cast an image of absolute opulence when they arrive in the capital.” 

“I will find a way to repay you.” 

“No payment is necessary.” _Only the payment was his children._ “We are family, my son.” Hoster waved his arm to disregard the cost of jewels and garments as merely a trifle. Family, Duty, Honour. The words of a fish were ironclad. 

“Finally we must discuss Bran…” Hoster said. “One of your sons must stay in the riverlands. He should be sent to an ancient household. I must repay loyalties with a grandchild that has both Tully and Stark bloodlines. The rest of the families have no infant daughters in their household…which leaves me to suggest the Blackwoods. Tytos Blackwood and I have already deliberated at great length on prospect of sending your second-born boy to Raventree Hall as a ward. With six sons, he will have plenty of company. Most importantly, his youngest and only daughter Bethany – is a few years younger than Bran. Sending him there in a few years will give the two ample time to grow up together. A union will take place when they both come of age.” 

“If you reward Lord Tytos,” Ned cautioned, “you will insult Jonos Bracken. He has five daughters to spare.” 

“I have plans for House Bracken,” he said tersely in his seat. “Does this sound agreeable to you? He would not be sent for straight away, of course. But after that, the boy will be cared for here…under my watchful eye.” 

The arrangement was certainly favourable to Ned. 

Catelyn had been given to the North. The North would give back with a red wolf to roam the riverlands. 

“I know Lord Tytos to be an honourable man,” Ned surmised. “Having Bran grow up in her homelands will be a comfort to Cat.” But somehow, he knew this to be false. Mothers do not take kindly to their babes being stolen from their breast. Catelyn will protest, he thought. Her children being sent away to every corner of the map. 

“Then I will send a raven to Raventree Hall tomorrow morning.” 

“And Edmure and Robin?” Ned asked. 

“Edmure is a far less troublesome topic,” Hoster said. For years, the bane of his existence was finding a suitable bride for his heir. No women was good enough, or highborn enough for Edmure Tully. All possible ones were thrown to other houses….but with the news from the capitol, one was now available to win over. 

Princess Arianne Martell. 

He is going to try to secure Dorne. 

“Arianne will not travel back to Sunspear, will she?” 

Hoster made a half smile, eyes twinkling brightly with approval, as if Ned was a child who just solved a riddle.

“No, she won’t. I have been in contact with Doran.” 

Ned could not help but pause and stare at his father-in-law with a sort of awe. There he sat, in a surcoat of blue and red, white haired and balding, but strong in his old age. There he sat…with an idea larger than any man, with the purpose of changing an entire country. To bring it back to an era of independence and freedom from the crown. 

The North, the Vale, the Riverlands, the Stormlands…with the possibility of the Iron Islands and Dorne joining as well. 

Hoster Tully. 

The matchmaker. 

The lord who seeks to take power away from the king. 

“On the final note, the most irksome matter. Lysa and Robin. Have you any word from them?” Hoster asked. 

“Catelyn wrote many moons ago,” said Ned. “Insistent on staying at the Eyrie. The boy is very sickly. She refuses to travel until he recovers.” 

“A hermit,” Hoster scowled. “My girl is avoiding a fosterage. Something must be done.” 

“You can’t take him by force.” 

“No,” Hoster replied, nodding. “But I can force Lysa.” 

“You wouldn’t.” 

“I would,” he said with force. “You saw the boy, Ned. I saw him.” 

Yes, he had. It was a terrible sight. 

Jon Arryn had died in his sleep several months ago. When he had traveled to the Eyrie to pay his respects to his old friend, a widowed Lysa Arryn greeted them both in the High Hall, with her son following closely behind her. Aged, with a puffed face covered in a thin layer white powder and paint, Lysa Arryn had the body of an elderly woman, inflated and worn. Perfumed scents could not hide the hint of sour milk caught the air she walked through, speaking to them with shrill tone that was rehearsed and insincere. 

Robert Arryn trailed in her shadow. He looked pale and malnourished, with blotches of red on his skin. Unruly and irritated with his new visitors. 

“The Defender of the Vale has no strength in his bones. He is no defender, only a weak boy that has not been weaned off his mother’s milk. Lord Yohn Royce reports that sweetrobin sends men that irritate him through the moon door daily at his own pleasure. Noble men are much too frightened to speak any ill in his presence, for the fear of falling too…Beyond the Eyrie, the mountain clansman are running rampant and their numbers grow steadily. What does their lady do? Nothing. A dormant fish that refuses to swim against the stream. Deaf to reality and reason, she rebuffs all offers of marriages, keeping herself locked away in her solar, waiting for her mockingbird to arrive to sing her false songs. The nobles are becoming malcontent and restless. Civil unrest is brewing fast…”

It was here that Hoster appeared forlorn as the shadows of the wall began to darken as the fire in the hearth burned lower and lower once more, dark enough to hide a salty tear to fall down his cheeks. “There is little use in mulling over roads untraveled, paths not taken. But my sweet Lysa, my precious little one…delicate; a fit of giggles…As a father, I have failed her…but she will not tarnish the Arryn line with her incessant coddling and paranoia. As High as Honour. In memory of Jon Arryn, my grandson must be taken away from this wretchedness. Robin will be fostered under the care of Lord Stannis Baratheon. Lord Royce of Runestone will be run the Eyrie in his stead. As for Lysa…she still has many suitors to choose from, and it would be in her best interest to accept one if she wishes to remain close to her son when he comes of age. However, if she continues to remain a widow…her wing of the castle will be monitored, and guards will provide her comfort and security.” 

_He means to make her captive in her own home_ , Ned thought, _keep her prisoner until she submits._

“I know that face. You think me cruel, Ned? That my methods are too drastic to inflict upon a most beloved daughter. You spent many years within the walls of the Eyrie. You grew up there. Tell me, what should I do? Where should my loyalties lie? To the men who put their trust in a woman who has failed them? Or to my daughter? I gave Lysa to House Arryn. Her actions are my own. When your child makes a mess and refuses to clean it up, do you not scold and punish them for misbehaving? Or do you let her continue…let her destroy the lands that ancient kings built because you love her?” 

The response Ned gave was measured. “I cannot give you answers. I only know that she will not forgive you for this. Take the boy away from her and she will lose her senses. She will be lost to you.” 

“Lysa is already lost to me,” Hoster’s eyes watering, he turned his head to the window again and let himself sigh. “….But Robin is not. He is still young. I can save him. After the tourney is over, my master-at-arms, Ser Desmond Grell, will take a company of good men to the Vale to assist Lord Yohn Royce in separating the two before any more damage can be done.” 

“It will not end well.” _Mothers do not take kindly to their babes being stolen from their breast,_ he repeated to himself. 

“We shall see….In the meantime, we both ought to get some rest. I am tired and spent. Tomorrow will be just as long and tenuous as today.” 

And so Ned left, with tired eyes but a restless mind. 

The new queen unknown and unselected. Parties arriving and leaving, splitting in half and attaching themselves to new things; Princess Arianne riding to the riverlands to make arrangements with House Tully. Bran to Raventree Hall. Arya to the stormlands, to marry a legitimized bastard.  
Lysa and her child separated….Sansa for Theon. 

As Ned traveled back to his sleeping courters, gathered his fatigued body into bed, laying the soft feathered blankets over himself and his sleeping wife, he wondered if he would be able to sleep at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, no Stark sisters here. Next chapter, I promise! Stay with me. The meeting between Ned and Hoster was something that I had to incorporate in order to establish the setting and the current status each character/pairing. 
> 
> A few things I want to address: 
> 
> 1\. So this is Southern Ambitions!Ned. Still Ned, but more political than the one in the books. He’s not doing it because he likes it, he is doing it because of a promise he made to his father. That’s why the first chapter is important, since I 100% believe that most of the Stark children (minus Sansa) would be betrothed to northern bannerman if King Robert did not need a new hand.  
> 2\. I find that sometimes the actual character of Gendry from the books gets lost when writers try to make him a prince or lord. Especially the ones where Robert is king. If you take him away from living a life as a bastard in Flea Bottom, then you are kind of erasing his entire character…which is not my jam.  
> 3\. Will Arianne be cool with Edmure? They going to hit it off or nah? Asking because I'm not entirely sure if that will work out or not.


	3. arya I

A train of female servants dropped large heavy chests into her chambers on the third morning back at Winterfell. 

Bertha, a stout handmaiden with straw-like hair, gawked unexpectantly at the incoming boxes that arrived as she tightly laced Arya of House Stark up in a plain white strapless bustier, distractedly pulling the ropes back and forward, forcing the waist to be thinner. Afraid of the massive grey direwolf that sat passively in the corner of the room, the servants scattered quickly throughout the room, frantically leaving the black containers far away from the beast on the stone floors with a heavy thump. 

“Wha’ are those, milady?” Bertha asked, nimble fingers carefully threading up the corset, as each girl filtered themselves out of the chambers after bowing. 

“A new wardrobe,” she replied with little emotion, giving each chest a curt glance before turning her face forward to the mirror in front. “My new wardrobe.” 

“Lot’s o’ fine things in there I expect, milady,” Bertha said, lifting a long monotone lilac chemise over her shoulders to drape it effortlessly over her underclothes. “Shall I open them up for you to wear one or will the gray frock do?” 

“Leave them,” Arya instructed softly. “Grey will do.”

“Very good, milady.” 

And without another word, the handmaiden gathered a thick gray frock hanging from the chestnut cabinet and helped her into the garment. The dress was tailored to be functional but fitted, hanging like a jacket with a belt attached to the waistline that would be tied up. A bretelles neckline cut into a deep surplice, so the colour of the chemise could peak through the overcoat. The sleeves had darker embedded threads embroidered and stitched in lines at the hems of the long sleeves, tracing all the way up to the shoulder blades and following back down to the opening of the frock at the front. 

Arya felt a tightness in her throat as Bertha stood behind her and opened up the clothing to make room for her arms to travel up the two sleeves. No matter how many times handmaidens dressed her over the years, there was a hint of uncomfortable displeasure during the experience; a feeling of vulnerability that was impossible to shake out. 

Bertha tied the garment in the middle, letting the threads of the belt hang low, and went to fetch the select from the items of personal ornaments laid out on the bedside table. Arya did not need to instruct the girl on which ones she favoured the most from her minimal collection, she learned quickly enough in their short time together. The handmaiden singled out a silver chained necklace with triad of moonstones attached in the middle, along with one matching ring. 

After putting on the last two articles, Arya then placed one hand on the handmaidens arm, thanked the young girl for the help and formally dismissed her. 

The sense of privacy Arya had hoped to feel when the door closed shut behind her did not arrive at all. _She would not look at them,_ she thought as she faced forward and stared into the mirror. But even when she kept her cool grey eyes on her reflection in the long mirror sitting in front, she could still see them. All these silly things enclosed all around her, trapping her in. There was no reason to look inside them, she already knew what they contained. Boxes filled with trinkets, textiles and treasures; laced scarves, waxed multicoloured cloaks, hairpieces stippled with obsidian and onyx gemstones, thin stilettos with fire opals and powdered amber, paneled pleated skirts, earrings with heavy droplet shaped crystals, golden cuffs, lightweight silken gowns, artesian brooches, embroidered gloves and more. 

When a host of craftsmen had arrived at Riverrun a single day after the tournament had ended, Arya quelled with curiosity at their mysterious and unexpected arrival. Standing before her and her sister was a group of sixteen men and women dressed in finery, fingers and necks shining brightly with jewels. Her mother stood alongside them, pursing her lips, mouthline thin and tight in attempt to hold her words in as the workers split into groups of two. Holding measuring sticks and rope in their hands, they started to work. Hands touching, poking and prodding her and her sister. In hushed tones, they whispered to one another, adroitly collecting, quantifying and computing the length, width and girth as well as the distance between two points of their bodies as their assistants recorded the numbers on a piece of parchment. 

“Mother… what is this?” Sansa had asked expectantly as one olive skinned woman with thick luscious black hair tied a thread around her neck, and made a hand gesture to another older man that placed a wooden stick against her back, who jotted down where her shoulders ended with charcoal. Her sister looked just as displeased with the intrusion as she did. “What are they doing?” 

“Taking your measurements,” her mother replied succinctly, but there was an added subtle despondent tone laced in her response. “Your grandfather has graciously offered to gift the two of you with a collection of clothing.” 

“New gowns!” Sansa cried out in surprise, and within moments her temperament changed. The frown that she wore flipped instantly into a smile as she beamed down at the tailors who continued their detailed inspection. 

Catelyn spoke up again. “That…and everything else.” 

Her sisters vivid blue eyes watered - and for the first time since Arya had been reunited with Sansa after leaving her wardenship at White Harbour - her face exhumed joy and she broke out in a frenzied laugh. Arya could not help but join her. When the giggling stopped, the two girls caught eyes, and Sansa shared a shy smile with her before the uncomfortable silence between them creeped in and her sister quickly looked away. Despite feeling exposed in just her small clothes, Arya heart stirred and she suddenly felt the painful warmth of a sisters acceptance seeping into her veins, unrecognizable, unfamiliar and brief but welcomed nonetheless. 

“You may select the hues you wish,” Catelyn instructed as the tailors showed the girls various samples of coloured linens, silk and cloth. Sansa liberally nominated an assortment of fabrics and patterns with a dreamy expression etched on her face, and leaned heavily towards romantic designs; pale toned blues, light fuchsia, deep violets and diamond white. Comparatively, Arya elected for dark or muted shades; jetted blacks, puce, blue woad, faint emeralds fashioned to look like tree leaves hitting the spring moonlight, and quilted pastiche. 

The workers then presented an array of jewels, metals, gems and diamonds. And though her sister gave a sharp breath at the glittering stones, she could not help but feel an stirring unease when faced with this level of affluence.

And with every choice she made, Arya noticed that the men and women would add pieces made of orpiment, gold, and ink to the heap. 

Then, she saw it. She saw the ivory patches of embroidered clothing being held up to her skin, a long flowing tulle material casually placed next her long dark brown hair and she knew. 

_These were not gifts._

_They were the gifts._

All of these trifling things were just wrappings. Objects enveloped in expensive packaging, ready for two men to tear open and devour. 

She looked back to her sister, who was also receiving a similar treatment. Two wrinkled men were comparing isabelline and caulk ribbons against her white skin. But Sansa paid them no mind, lovingly brushing the ridges of an aquamarine stone cut into a seashell. 

_Oh Sansa,_ she thought with sadness. _The deed has been done. We’ve been sold away. For good this time._

The blood drained from her body and she felt short of breath. If she had felt air in her lungs, she would have shouted down at the people surrounding her until her voice went hoarse. _Stop, go away and stop touching me,_ she screamed internally in her head, _I am Arya Stark._ She then looked over at her mother, who returned her gaze, their expressions both daring one another to speak an uncomfortable truth that they were not yet accustomed to voicing into the world. _I’m good enough now, aren’t I,_ she wanted to scream, knowing it would pain her mother to hear it. This is what all the fosterage was for, after all. White Harbour was tasked with taking in an impish northern girl in order to turn her into a beautiful southern bride suitable for a high lord. 

At the thought, Arya felt tears welled up in her eyes. She had wanted to be good. To do her duty. There had been warnings - instructors had repeatedly told her this day would soon come, especially after her first blood drenched her cold white sheets during the night, signalling her womanhood. When a maid, three-and-twenty, tossed the bedclothes aside from them to be cleaned, she gave her a demure smile before leaving her as dark clouts of blood slowly trailed down her inner thighs. Later, as Maester Theomore gave her a cool drink to soothe the aching in her abdomen, he stated as a matter of fact, with no heart and little emotion, ‘You’ll have a lord in your featherbed soon enough, my lady.’ 

But all she wanted was Winterfell, all she wanted was home. 

To run into the Wolfswood with Nymeria, with Needle sheathed at her hip, and her bastard brother trailing beside her. 

To wear a Stark cloak and wander through the vast fields of the north, shifting through wild foliage and stinging nettles until the end of her days. 

When she had told Bellegere Otherys that she had flowered, she tisked loudly with her tongue. “A little wolf does not whimper after she has been given more power,” she said, wiping away a tear that had formed and fallen on her face. “She shows her new sharp teeth and howls.” 

Arya would not be a wolf for much longer now, though. She would be a southern lady. Biting her cheeks, she stared intensely at her mother, daring her to tell them now. _Tell me it isn’t true, that we aren’t being pampered like pigs before the slaughter._ Catelyn nodded, eyebrows drawn upwards in despair, but shook her head and refused to speak. Arya looked all around with a tinge of confusion, wondering why her mother was not revealing the secret to them now that she had figured it out. Just then, a worker brought over a long piece of parchment that he had copied from the original, listing the number of items from each daughter for Catelyn to review, he spoke in a low voice as she perused the paper. 

_The silence should be for me, not Sansa,_ she thought, confused as she watched Catelyn surreptitiously fold the note into her skirt pocket. The defiant part of her wanted to cause chaos all around her by shouting accusations, but when Arya caught a glance over at her sister again, watching her touch a blushed paisley pattern with a vacant, far-off expression painted across her countenance, she felt protective and resolved to not ruin the moment for Sansa. 

_No matter…I won’t be the one to tell,_ she thought resolutely. 

Mother and father would break the news soon. 

And they did. 

On the first night back to Winterfell, after a long travel from the riverlands, the two sisters had been instructed to go to fathers solar after the homecoming feast had concluded for the night. Many of the guests had already left, filled with gallons of sweet wine, the long tables now holding just a few people. Meera Reed - now Lady Meera Stark - her long curls braided into a chignon with little ringlets falling forward on each side of her face, had stayed with her to answer more of her questions about the crannogmen and the children of the forest. “People say that we used to mate with them in the times of old, because of our stature. They are small little things that come from the earth,” she said, in a hushed tone, as if she was speaking a secret. Arya took another sip of red wine from her goblet, transfixed and hanging on every word. “Like cats, with black claws for fingers.” 

“How do you know if no one has ever seen them?” Arya asked inquisitively. 

At this, Lady Meera smiled. “My brother.” 

“But - ” 

“Milady,” Jory Cassel interrupted her line of questioning, looking apologetic. “Your mother and father are waiting for you.” 

The steps towards the solar were long. After having one too many drinks to calm her nerves over the subsequent meeting with her parents - where she would discover which fat old lord she would have to marry, Arya felt her grace leaving her as she climbed the circular stairway up to come face to face with her impending fate. In attempt to disguise her level of intoxication to Jory Cassel, she held on to the railing side to steady herself, and tried to remember Syrio Forel’s lessons: _fear cuts deeper than swords, and a man who fears losing has already lost. And I am about to lose._

When Jory opened the doors for her, Arya stood tall, posture straight and entered. _Strong as a bear, fierce as a wolverine._

Dozens of tall candelabras glowed throughout the room, giving the space an auburn colour that bolstered a sense of solace. Sansa was sitting there already, on the right-side lapeled chair facing where her father sat behind the desk. Her sister, wearing a heavy light blue dress with dark blue and violet ribbons, had a wooden expression when she turned to look at Arya. Catelyn stood behind, hair tightly braided behind her back, hands clasped together in front, looking deeply apprehensive. 

Eddard Stark sat in a chair drawn close to the desk, and considered her thoughtfully as she sat down next to Sansa. 

“We both have something to tell you two,” he began, taking a breath. “But before we do, we want you to know - want you _both_ to know that your mother and I love you…” 

“You have both come to the age of majority now. The time has come for the two of you to wed,” he continued. “Your mother and I have discussed the matches I have made for the both of you, and we are both in agreement that these proposals hold the best prospects for House Stark. The announcement has been made to the rest of the realm. You will both be staying south to marry immediately after the kings name-day celebrations.” 

Sansa was the first to speak, blue eyes scanning forward, anxious. “And…” There was a pause. “Our future husbands…who will they be?” 

“Arya…” Eddard spoke up once more, visibly gulping before finding a sturdier, more self-assured and authoritative voice. “You will wed Gendry Baratheon, new heir to Storm’s End.” 

The inaudible suspension in the room was filled with a stillness that pierced through the lungs. Though sitting, the body remained quiescent but she felt a wrestling in her bones, a restlessness coursing up and down. Water filled her system, drowning her in crashing waves, making her feel full and faint. A small sweat broke her forehead, causing Arya to feel cold and warm at the same time. _The bastard heir._ Unsure of whether or not it was the wine or the news that has effecting her so, she starred mutely forward at nothing until she finally mustered up what she had been rehearsing over and over in her head when she had discovered the truth behind the clothing: “It is a good match. Thank you, father.”

“A very good match,” Catelyn responded, while nodding in agreement, shifting her head between Arya and Ned, no doubt hoping to relieve the tension infiltrating in the room. 

“A great house? _All of stormlands,_ ” said Sansa, looking altogether stunned at the news. It was no surprise to her that Sansa would be absolutely stupefied by the idea of Arya Underfoot garnering such a strong union. During their youth, her sister and the stewards daughter, Jeyne Poole, would giggle, neigh and jeer at her when she arrived late at feasts with tattered clothes and muddied cheeks, ‘you’d have better luck finding a destrier to wed than a man, Horseface.’ But after she returned from White Harbour, the taunting had not recommenced. Now Sansa simply considered her thoughtfully. Jeyne Poole - though green-eyed and resentful - continued to observe her with a pout permanently resting on her face, and remained fearfully silent in her presence. 

With all eyes on her, Arya shifted slightly in her seat, hoping to shake the storms ragging inside her; trying to maintain a good posture, to appear calm. _You are not a child anymore, you are a woman. Full grown and strong._ In an effort to give the impression of concrete composure, she spoke again, “That’s what all the clothes were for, all the black and yellow.”

“Your new house colours.” Ned nodded, and it drained her posture to hear those words. New house. Arya did not want a new house, it was her family that she wanted: House Stark. “Your grandfather wanted you to possess clothing suitable for a Baratheon. To better acclimate…to help smoothen the transition, I suppose.” 

“A wedding dress should arrive with your new attire as well,” Catelyn interjected, eyes watering, hope stretching the fine lines of her face. “I picked it out myself. If you like, we could look over it together.” 

Before Arya had time to accept her offer, Sansa breathed loud and obtrusive ‘humpf,’ swiftly intercepting the direction of the meeting. 

“And me,” she said anxiously, looking frustrated and indignant, fluctuating her gaze back and forth between mother and father frantically, clearly wanting to shift the conversation forward to reveal her fate. “What about me, father?” 

“You,” Eddard, letting out a tremendous sigh. “You will marry high lord from another great house. Theon Greyjoy, heir to the Iron Islands and Pyke.” 

The words were said with such swiftness that there was little time to process the information fully. Sansa balked in her chair, looking completely aghast. “I am…to marry Theon? _Our Theon.”_

Arya could not contain her complete astonishment, lips opening up in disbelief, drawing in breath. In that moment, her own marriage announcement felt fleeting, miles away and unimportant. Her marriage, and the union between the north and the stormlands was inevitable. An alliance with the ironborn – on the other hand – was entirely unexpected, entirely unimaginable, and with none other than their old ward; the same boy that grew into a man inside these halls, their eldest brothers greatest confidante and most valued friend. But the son of the treasonous Balon Greyjoy nevertheless. 

Eddard appeared penitent behind his desk, fingers folding and unfolding. “Yes, my child.” 

Her sister turned as white as a sheet. “But I can’t…The ironborn are not – this has to be some sort of mistake.” 

“No, my dear,” Catelyn said, her eyes glistening still, but her mouth formed into a flat line. “It isn’t. Your father and grandfather arranged the contract with House Greyjoy after the tournament in Riverrun.” 

“The two of you will wed your betrotheds on the shores of the stormlands after the king’s name day tournament,” Eddard said firmly, but his stare still filled with a dash of remorse. “You will be Sansa Greyjoy.” _Neither one looks particularly pleased,_ she thought. _Father looks like he has no other choice, and mother looks sad._ Staring out at her parents as they casted stern expressions, it seemed as though that there was a bigger, even greater shadow looming over them all that pulled the strings. 

“Sansa _Stark,_ ” she corrected tartly, her blue eyes brimming with rage. “Your first born daughter. You give Arya - my little sister - the richest trade capital in the seven kingdoms and what do I get? Salt and stone. Brutes and savages. Rapers.” 

Her parents exchanged a subtle glance between one another that lasted for a seconds before dissipating. Grimacing, Eddard looked up as Catelyn turned her head down, eyes meeting as she knowingly shook her head, eyebrows raised up high as if she had been anticipating this reaction. 

“Is this my punishment?” she cried out incredulously as she prodded for more answers. “For failing with Joffrey? Father, I tried…I did everything right and he still…” 

“No,” Eddard said, voice lilting. “No, this is no punishment. The ironborn are –“ 

“I would sooner be a unwedded crone.” Sansa announced, her tone fastened with venom.

“Sansa, do not interrupt your father,” mother warned harshly before stopping herself, walking forward a little to place her hand on the elmwood table surface for stability, or some semblance of reassurance. Though visibly frustrated, Catelyn attempted to change her tone, speaking a little more softly now, but still restrained. “The deal has been struck. He is to be your intended. You are a lady of House Stark, and you must do your duty. For your family.” 

“He won’t honour me,” she protested, starting to cry. “He won’t. He always boasted with Robb that he would take hundreds of salt wives once he became Lord after his father died. I heard him. Bran did too! You promised me a good lord. A kind one. Someone who would love me. Someone worthy of me, someone right. This isn’t right!” 

“Sansa –“ 

“I won’t marry him…please don’t make me do it, father. Please. It’ll be worse than Joffrey, I know it will. I know it.” 

The mention of her former betrothed made the energy in the room shift dramatically to a sudden halt, setting both mother and father on edge. Joffrey Hightower was not a name spoken often in Winterfell, not without a whisper of malcontent. In the earlier years, the two met in Casterly Rock during the wedding ceremony between Tyrion Lannister and Lady Alysanne Lefford of Golden Tooth. Following a brief courtship, the arranged marriage announcement concerning Hightower and Stark arose the same week that Arya was to depart for White Harbour. ‘Come back as a proper sister, one who understands the way of things,’ she cautioned earnestly, smoothing her blue silk dress when she sat next to her with bursting pride. ‘For I will be one of the richest ladies in all of Westeros soon.’ 

Thus, with stinging salted streamed tears running down her cheeks and as the carriage sent her east to White Harbour, Arya thought bitterly that the cruel songs were true indeed; beautiful girls get towers and castles, beautiful girls get red roses from knights, beautiful girls get affection from attractive young men with purses filled with coin. Acceptance was conditional; to be worthy was to be lovely...there will be no soft melodies for the ugly ones, only banishment. Banishment until betterment. 

But the song for her sister died before it could even reach the chorus, stopping at the first verse with an abrupt shriek. The broken engagement reached her ears during supper with Lord Wyman. Before the fat lord broke into the warm, crumbling port and fish liver pie with a fork and knife, he silently handed the letter over while the rest of the family ate their meal. ‘Dark wings,’ he spoke, licking bits of buttered pastry from his round upper lip with his tongue, ‘dark words.’ 

A she-wolf died in the great tower of the Reach, and the rest of her arrived back home, back to the North with her tail hanging low, fragmented and defeated. 

No one in the room could speak after Hightower was mentioned, no one would dare. The solar heard nothing but the sound of sobbing and heavily, hyperventilated breathing. “Why give me clothes fit for a queen?” Sansa cried delicately. “When they all dress in shabby rags.” 

“Because you are my daughter,” Eddard replied with such gentle love that it cut through the sobs. “You are the granddaughter of Rickard Stark and Hoster Tully.” 

Catelyn interjected, on the verge of tears, matching him in softness. “And you will be given Seagard. The Cape of Eagles lies at your feet, my love.” 

The news that she would run an ancient castle did not seem to phase her sister, who continued to shed tears and shake her head. “House Justman built Seagard,” she recited, heaving lightly as she looked down at her feet. “It was meant to defend against the ironborn. They rang the bronzed bell from the Booming Tower for the first time in three hundred years when Rodrik Greyjoy stormed the city, when Theon’s brother stormed the city. And now you give it over to them.” 

“Hoster is giving it to you, my dear one. It is a conditional contract,” Eddard explained. “The ironborn will treat you well. If not, they will not settle and it is in their best interest to do so. Pyke will still be in their possession, but you – you will rule over the ones who settle in Seagard.” 

“Ruling over peasants and thralls,” Sansa whimpered. “I am meant for more than that.” 

_No,_ Arya thought with irritation, _we are nobleborn daughters, a product to be traded and sold. This is exactly what we were meant for._

And so the blackened chests stood, corners lined with metalled hinges, all scattered in random spots throughout her courters, summoning her to peer inside and see a glimpse of her future lurking deep inside those boxes: Lady Arya Baratheon of Storm's End. Looking inside made the situation even more real, it made Arya Baratheon more real. 

“Remember,” Bellegere cautioned her during one of their many meetings in Braavos. “The wares on your skin show wealth and identity. But it is also an illusion, it casts a spell on perception, influencing our judgements. Use it to your advantage, my sweet one.” 

“Like…a weapon?” Arya had asked inquisitively, her damp body clinging tightly to her white linen smallclothes. 

“Yes,” she replied, patting a touki and uji green tea formula onto her protégées cheeks; tracing them with her long delicate fingers, down to her neck and onto the collarbone. “Just like your pretty needle.” 

Nymeria, the monstrous direwolf with soft grey fur hunched over the corner of the bedroom casually trotted over to the largest chest sitting closest to Arya, sniffing it curiously with her big black snout. The wolf gave a loud whining sound to indicate her displeasure at the boxes taking up much of the space in the room, giving the large beast less freedom to roam freely without a chest blocking her way. Irritated, its golden eyes looked imploringly at her and growled. 

“I don’t like them any more than you do,” she retorted, feeling mildly offended. Nymeria gave another high-pitched whine as Arya placed a hand on the scruff of its collar to stroke the fur. 

“Should we move one and have a look inside then?” The direwolf licked her palm in approval, and promptly moved away as she unlocked the latches on the sides of the chest. 

Staring at the folded clothes, Arya saw _it._ The one request had indeed been ordered and made, the one she had wondered whether or not her mother would eliminate from the list of items ordered for her after their measurements and selections were made. At the discovery that she was soon to be wed, there was a hum of defiance settling into her skin. And so, when her mother had her attention fixed on Sansa, she whispered a particular item under her breath to the smallest and youngest worker that was measuring the width of her bare calves, gesturing to a number of different colours and fabrics. The young girl, missing two front teeth, gave a wide smile and nodded, inscribing the demand down on a tiny scrap of parchment in miniature, scribbled handwriting. 

After the measurements were complete and the lists drafted, Arya walked back to her temporary chambers feeling beaten, surely when her mother saw it on her list, she would strike it off in horror. With the realization that her creation would not come into fruition, she drifted off to sleep on an eiderdown pillow without a second thought. To dream of gliding on calm waters under the pale moon sky. 

But there it was - folded and resting at the top of a heap of clothing - an asymmetrical patterned longcoat paired with plain dark trousers. Elegant and glinting, the base of the jacket was black but the textile was liberally layered with both hard and soft materials, as if a tailor had bundled up all the scattered leftover pieces meant for other articles from the floor and stitched them affectionately onto the coat. On one sleeve, it featured filigreed gold and white embroidery, curving and curling in every direction, with tiny beads that reflected the faintest glimmer of light laced throughout. On the opposite sleeve, there was bold blocks of colouring in cobalt, coal and snow stretched in off-centered, horizontal lines. Little flowered insignias in the shape of droplets were strewed in random places, heavy silvery buttons etched on the opening ends, speckles of turquoise and rogue threaded throughout with pale ginger silk predominantly situated on the lower half. 

The jacket was a chaotic pastiche, an amalgamation of deep rich tones from the earth combined with white, black and gold. A quilt without rhyme. Arya brought it up to inspect it further, and her wolf blessed it with a curious sniff. _An anarchic masterpiece,_ she had murmured to the girl. And it was. 

_Not traditional_ , she thought. _A lady of my own._

Sharing a look with Nymeria, she beamed triumphantly and placed her prize back into the chest with the rest of the attire. Spirited, the wolf mirrored her changed mood, playfully barking several times. 

Arya laughed but hushed and kissed her nose. Cool grey eyes meet intense gold. “You and I dreamt together again last night, didn’t we?”

She had tasted blood in her mouth when she woke in the morning, inner cheeks soaking with a thin sheet of iron. Dreamt of tearing flesh of a cottontail with sharp, jagged teeth, spilling its thick entrails over the damp overturned earth. And after, panting in the dark woods, paws printing tracks on the ground as she moved quick across the fields with the others at her side. 

It was not always Nymeria. Sometimes it was a small black cat lurking swiftly in the shadows of a nearby town, or large white bird with a long elegant neck drifting down a riverbank. But on most nights, the young woman and direwolf ran together as one. 

Taking one last look at the chests, and one final look at her appearance in the mirror. Draped in shades of smoke and faint purple, she forced herself to smile. _I am still Arya Stark,_ she thought patently. _For now, grey will do._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope this chapter satisfies. Very nervous about writing Arya. She is my one true love so I hope I did her justice. 
> 
> Let me know what you think!
> 
> Coat is from the Valentino 2016 Shakespearean collection. Look it up if you are interested. 
> 
> ALSO, I will not be able to update for a little while now. The next two weeks are too busy for me and I need to focus on finishing (finally) university. Hope you all understand.


	4. sansa i

b e f o r e

* * *

“Come on, we’re nearly there,” Joffrey called out a few paces beyond. “Just a few more steps.” 

_After nearly two hours of walking,_ Sansa thought, her long legs close to buckling underneath, worn down from the constant movement, up and up and up and up. Losing her breath, she bite her the front of her tongue, forcing herself to exhale and inhale deeply through her nose instead. _This is a test,_ she thinks, _one that will show that I am worthy of the seat next to his._

She would be worthy – she would show him that she was worthy – and so she climbed on. Determined, with no hands to hold onto the walls for support, Sansa took each stride forward and let the air fill her body all the way down to her toes. Taking in the elements; letting it flow through her, letting it give her strength she needs to ascend. 

“It is at the top of the tower where my new chambers will be, once I am lord,” Joffrey said brightly, his feet stamping on the edges of the stairs harshly. The mere prospect of becoming a lord of a great fortress was a constant obsession for her handsome betrothed, despite the fact that the ascension appeared too far off in the distance for him to even entertain the notion so fervently; his late grandfather Lord Leyton passed before she attended the imps wedding at Casterly Rock with her mother, and his father Lord Baelor Hightower, known fondly as Baelor the Blessed, was a healthy, handsome man that revealed only strength and vigor. Yet the inevitable wait for the title of ‘lord’ did not seem to deter his eldest son – his heir – from incessantly boasting of the future powers he will possess as the Beacon of the South and Defender of the Citadel. “Since I was a boy, mother told me that I should not tire climbing the steps, lest I be seen as weak to my household. A lord of the tower must always be able to mount his fortress.” 

The shadow of power was enough for her sweet beloved to taste on his tongue. Tor him, it was so real and apparent that he could literally chew the tender flesh off its bone. And Joffrey regularly feasted on the idea. So ferociously that the severity of his obsession at times frightened her; the lamentations were so strong that they drifted him into a world of illusions, and turned him into an occasional, aggressive man – with a jaw clenched and fists white-knuckled. But when the fever broke, these fleeting doubts were tempered in the warm smiles he would offer her later. Shifting the stray red hairs from her pale face, Joffrey would tuck them softly behind her ear and say in the sweetest of tones: “You and I will not just continue the legacy of House Hightower,” he promised, “we will make it greater than it ever was. As great as the legendary King Uthor of the High Tower, more powerful than the Gardener Kings of Old. Our children will build upon our good work.” 

She had dreamt of their future children before, sons and daughters named Otho, Dorian, Lymond, Alicent and Ceryse; all beautiful and apple cheeked, with golden haired curls. She would give birth to a strong boy first, of course – and Joffrey would smile at her and kiss her brow for giving him such a healthy heir. He would order the high bells of Oldtown to be rung throughout the day, and once she was well enough to travel after the boys birth, they would parade across town with their newborn babe while the townspeople lifted petals and rice into the air while they chanted their names like a litany; bestowing blessings and offering prayers from the Seven. 

Other children would follow. And they would scamper around the black stone labyrinthine, unearth wild delilahs from the gardens, and play ‘come into my castle’ with one another. _Little sweetlings, they will be,_ she thought happily in these fanciful moments of imagined cogitation, _living under the brightest beacon of Westeros. Pray gods that I flower on the next moon, so I can see them soon._

The travel up the stairs was starting to quicken her heart beat, and she could feel her face begin to flush from the arduous rise upwards. Her face was starting to sweat, and breath started to heave audibly. Sansa felt fearful that Joffrey would notice her weakening. “Do you take the trip to the top often, my lord?” she asked, hoping to tempt him into speaking more in order to distract him from her loud heaving. 

“As often as I can,” he replied without looking back. “Grandfather never left his solar for years before he died. Bedridden by the end. That will not be my fate.” 

_Death is a hard thing to control,_ Sansa thought inwardly, _it is an agent of the gods – of nature itself._ But these were thoughts that she would keep to herself: Joffrey never liked hearing information that was contrary to his own beliefs, and he particularly did not enjoy being informed of his own limitations. 

And so she naturally filtered out the unpleasant musings when she interacted with him. It was no different with how she behaved with others. Administering slight adjustments of the truth – or the simple omission of the truth to serve others came naturally to Sansa. 

“My lady,” he said with shocked concern as he turned around, standing in front of a massive marble-coloured doorway a several of stairs above her. It was clear that her worn out appearance had given her away. Parse red hairs were sticking to the sweat on her forehead and she had stopped climbing the stairs entirely to catch her breath. With a frown, Joffrey started walking down towards her. “If you were short of breath, I could have used that as an excuse to carry you.” Sansa blushed at the words, her face turning even redder than before. “Here.” 

He extended his hand, and she grabbed onto it tightly as he lifted her up the final few stairs. At the doors, Joffrey shot her a quick impish smirk before opening up the entrance. Despite her tiredness, Sansa could not help but smile at his excitement. It was in these little moments she knew that he would be good to her, it was in these moments that she believed that he loved her. 

There was a short tunneled hallway that led outside the tower. The complete darkness encapsulated them both, but the light from the outside contrasted vividly against the shadows, guiding their path forwards. Crossing in the middle, between the black and white shades, Sansa emerged from the darkness to greet the sun. 

“There is no greater sight in all of Westeros,” he announced as they looked past the ashlar parapet. The walls were doubled, its concentric architecture constructed to prevent guards from falling off the tower and into Honeywine river. The port of Oldtown appeared miniature from this distance, like a map with little stone figurines that soldiers would use to scrutinize strategies before leaving for battle. From this height, all the ports, houses, and trading posts - including the Thieves Market and Ragpickers Wynd - were simple blocks shaded into colours of the earth; red clays and deep browns against thick marbled walls. The various buildings were held together by narrow wynds that linked pieces together, creating straight pathways that broke into different directions before reconnecting once again. Here, Sansa could see the white masts of ships; some drifting out into the Sunset Sea, while others sailed upriver, towards the Citadel. 

The burning beacon above heated her skin, leaving it looking sun brunt. Being this far up made the humid air lighter, the heat entangling with the feint flowery perfume exuding from the city below, constricting her throat. Joffrey started pacing, pointing out monuments to Sansa that could be seen from this height with a practically light-headed expression on his face; the Quill and Tankard Inn, the Roseroad that leads to Highgarden, the castles of Honeyholt and Brightwater Keep, and finally the Starry Sept of the Seven. “The sept was raised by Tristan Hightower himself,” he boasted, turning back to Sansa, “made a thousand years before Aegon’s Conquest.” 

_In honour of his mentor, Septon Robeson,_ she finished in her head, _and King Aegon I would revisit the building frequently during his conquests throughout the realm._ She knew this story. She knew the entire history of House Hightower before her betrothal to Joffrey from her lessons with Septa Mordane. But it was better to make him believe that she did not. _They are his ancestors stories, not mine,_ she thought, _it would be rude to tell him his own history._ Often Sansa would wonder if he would ever ask about her own house, House Stark: Bran the Builder or the children of the forest or the great northern Stark kings. But Joffrey never asked, and so Sansa did not tell. 

“Over eight-hundred feet. A fall from here would break a man into pieces if it hits the rocks of Battle Isle instead,” he said, smiling wide as he walked closer to the edge, where the embrasures arched into pointed edges. “The body does not still when it drops from this height. Maester Walys says that it twists upon impact, flattens out like a sheet draped over stone.” 

Sansa was still standing several feet away from the edge, and had two walls protecting her from reaching the edge and falling, but the image behind his words made her shiver against the hot air. A bloodied body broken apart – squashed and distorted – waiting for the vultures to pick at its remains, until all that is left is bone. 

“It’s light is seen even through the foggiest weather,” Joffrey was now walking towards her, gesturing to the beacon looming above them both. When he reached her let his hand caress his abdomen softly, whispering into her ear. The gesture was intimate, and suddenly Sansa was very aware that the two were unsupervised, besides the two guards stood between the bordered walls. No disapproving septas, no vigilant mother and no scowling hound to frighten her. Her cheeks felt painfully hot, and her heart started to beat a little faster as Joffrey tugged at her waist, bringing it closer to his body. 

“Queen Alysanne rode Silverwing when they came to visit this castle,” he whispered into her neck, letting his lips trail down her heated skin. His hands steadied themselves on her hips, gripping them tighter. Sansa drew her breath in, inhaling the hot perfumed air that surrounded them. The intimacy of the moment forced her to remain still and soundless against him. “The great beast perched itself right where we stand, nestled itself close to the fires. Years before dragons used to roost on this isle, before the kings wiped them all out.”

“One of the nine Wonders Made by Man, and I will rule all of it,” he said, keeping his head deep into the nape of her neck as he spoke. Joffrey lifted his hands up to her rib cage and squeezed so hard that it hurt – his intensity so great that it would surely break the bones underneath – it made Sansa breathe out and gasp in discomfort from the pressure. “The light that leads the way, to the Whispering Sound and beyond.” 

Undeterred by her injured moan, Joffrey turned his head upwards to meet her face, expression emboldened and intense. “And you…you will be its mistress.” He tucked away a loose tendril of hair, his other hand still pressing hard on her abdomen, just underneath her left breast, and kissed her softly. 

His soft lips were gentle and inviting, coaxing her tongue to move with his, but his harsh hands remained, bruising her overheated body. 

Her reddened skin would bruise into a deep purple by the end of the night. 

All Sansa could do is wait for both the pain and pleasure to end.

* * *

a f t e r 

* * *

In her dreams, she wore a crown. 

A silver castle on a bed of flaming hair; a pearl circlet with thousands of metalled roses and kingscopper, fit for a queen who sits upon a mountain of iron swords swung by dead men. Sheathed in a gown strung up with gossamer threads spun by the diamond spiders of Asshai; she shined greater than the sun itself, burned so hot that her feet seared the salty seas as she walked through the shoreline. Her hungry, burning pale blue eyes swallowed all waters whole. And after Sansa drank the ocean, she waltzed gracefully into the dried up coral lands where the once dormant creatures stirred beneath the bedrock. Colourful starfish erupted from the grounds to touch her skin and started floating up into the air all around her. 

Lifeless marine animals settled on the floor, grey peppered mackerels on their bellies, eels’ mouths opened wide, pufferfish lying deflated and flat on the cool ground. Deceased. Comatose. But when her fingertips grazed the scales, they pulsed and sprang into existence once again, suspended above and swimming fast and quick in the air around her. Suddenly, an Old Men of the River from Rhoyne bellowed out from behind her, flying out into an absent tide. The turtle beckoned her to follow, and so she did. 

Moving against the flying creatures as if she was underwater – as if the water had not left at all – her fiery long hair wisping out in every direction, but the massive silver crown resting on her head stayed still. The long train of her shimmering cobwebbed garment collected lost treasures of the deep as she walked further out; sharp barnacles that glowed into bright lavender and sapphire, dark slippery seaweed, rusted bronzed coins, and delicate shells stuck to the hems. The further she stepped, the more life she amassed. Her dress now filled to the brim with beasts and things, teeming with life; a part of her now. In the distance, a loud creature shrieked from a black hole where the giant turtle led her. 

The sound made her heart flutter wildly within her chest, until it morphed into a voice that she recognized. “Sansa. My queen,” it roared, smoke escaping from its mouth, “please.” He was clutching his throat as if he were drowning from the inside. Golden curls, and a handsome face. Joffrey. Beside him was an older woman, with long yellow locks and scared emerald eyes; his beautiful and terrifying mother. 

The two were stuck in a large deep hole, on top of a dark unknown creature that moved underneath them, its large tentacles curling around their limbs like a reptilian coiling around its prey. As the multiple black slender appendages started to curl and curl, they shouted out to her. Begging. Pleading for the chance of escape. “I love you so,” he screeched, frantically tearing at the walls, “I know it, I know.” But as the dark creature from the depths of the hole started to slowly consume their bodies, the more the faces started to morph; pink noses turned to snouts, fingernails grew into claws, and their golden manes began to grow all over. What was once two humans pleading for their life were now two giant cats, a lioness and her adolescent cub. 

They continued to scream out to her, scratching against the beast, tentacles curling at their necks, chanting and repeated the phrase, “Queen, queen, I love you so…please, I know,” until their voices faded and became guttural roars. Sansa stood, shaking and crying as the two animals broke apart under the pressure of the monsters numerous limbs; the lion mothers right arm torn harshly from her body, another tentacle shoved itself inside the lion cubs mouth, untroubled by its relentless scratching. Blood from the two felines started to rise up into the air, and there – the creature shrieked against Sansa’s sobbing, tearing apart limb to limb until all that was left were bits and pieces of dead cats. 

“I love you so,” it sang out to her as it rose from the hole, “I know…I know.” 

The voice from the beast was – high and beautiful. Feminine. _Hers. ___

It rose as it sang out, reaching the top of the pit. To the point where Sansa could finally see it clearly.

The greatest sea monster of all; a kraken, using her own tongue to bellow out, “I know, I know…I love you so.” 

She couldn’t move as it drifted closer to her, repeating the phrase over and over as a melody, coaxing her to join in on the song. _I love you, I know…I love you, I know._ And when her lips opened to mouth the words the voice became shared – theirs. The life and lifeless clinging to her gown started to smoulder against her skin as they both continued the chorus. Sobbing, they sang faster and faster. _I love you so, I know, I know. I love so._ So hard and quick that the words started to create a heated friction between the two until they were both enflamed. 

The fire burned them both, and the silver crown shattered into a thousand pieces; the lady and the beast joyously crying, desperately repeating their devotions to one another over and over until they turned to ashes. 

When the sea filled itself up with salted water once more, their charred ruins fused together. From the bottom of the sea floor, she opened her eyes again, wearing the face of a beautiful golden kraken.

* * *

* * *

Sansa awoke from the dream panting with a painfully dry throat, beaded sweat trickling down her face. Buried in soft fur covers, she wiped her damp forehead and attempted calm herself down by steading her hard breathing. _Just a dream,_ she thought, _just another bad dream._ Before, the imaginations were just daydreams; a royal crowning in the Red Keep, with all the noble lords and ladies of Westeros kneeling before her, eyes filled with love and adoration as she sat next to the young, handsome dragon king. Now, since the official pronouncement of her betrothal to Theon Greyjoy, the idea of becoming queen was now being stolen away from her, even when she was not awake. Septa Mordane would scold her if she admitted to the dreams again; “a figment of worry and loss, my lady. Lock those thoughts and ideas away. They will do you no good now. Never entertain them again. Your charge in life now is to be the lady of Seagard and the Iron Islands, not the queen of Westeros.” 

Not the queen of Westeros. But that is what Sansa _ought_ to be – what she was _meant_ to be. That is what Jeyne Poole had excitedly told her when the queen mother, Elia Martell, sent out a raven to Winterfell from the capitol, formally inviting members of House Stark, along with the rest of the great houses, to join her in celebrating King Aegon’s name day with a tournament that would last for several moons. She ran after her in the hallway, shrieking about her name, “the princes’ daughter has fled! The face of the new queen will not come from Dorne!” After telling her that her father, Vayon Poole, the steward had overheard Maester Luwin discussing the letter in detail with her parents, she leaned in close and whispered, “it will only be a matter of time before the rest hear it, but your father said that the tourney is simply a precursor to marriage,” she said, her brown eyes shining. 

“How?” Sansa balked considerably, their betrothal was longer than most, but there was no severing a dragon once it tied itself to the sun. “What changed?”

“Perhaps she was not enough to satisfy,” she said, chuckling. “She may be a princess, but she is still Dornish. All that fiery peppers and strange spices in her blood might not have been for his taste. Maybe he might have a penchant for something sweeter.” 

Sansa did not return the laugh. She did not know Arianne Martell, but the prospect of another women being tossed aside or running away from the man she was meant to marry gave her little pleasure. _What happened first?_ She asked herself. _Did she leave or did he tell her to go?_ Surely it must have been King Aegon that refused her. No women in their right mind – even a princess – would distance herself from the title of queen. 

“After all that you’ve been through…” Jeyne gently reached out her hand to rest on her shoulder. The brush against her skin made Sansa wince internally. It had become a reflex to freeze, to hide the anticipation of pain whenever someone attempted to touch her. “It should be you.” 

“Did they…did they say anything about me?” Sansa asked. The thought had not crossed her mind. Why would it? When all her life she never entertained the idea of sitting next to the king. 

“My father happened to overhear your mother and father discussing you as he left. Only as he left…he was not eavesdropping but he did hear your name. As clear as day!” 

“Me?” Sansa said, perplexed. _A queen._

“There is no better lady in all of the realm. The firstborn daughter of House Stark. Beautiful, well-read _and_ accomplished. A lady from the north with riverland blood. What more could the king want? My father could see no other option,” Jeyne replied, talking a mile a minute, her hand still resting gently on her elbow. 

Sansa could think of more than one: Myrcella Hightower. A startling beauty with streams of gilded gold framing her rosy cheeks. She was a quick mind too – not even her own brother was bold enough to challenge her. She would have the support of House Lannister too…And though she had never met Margaery Tyrell, there was no lord or lady that she had meet in the south that did not sing her praises. A charitable woman; adored by smallfolk and nobles alike. Renly Baratheon had even boasted one evening to her father during the tourney in Riverrun that she had all the likeness of Lyanna Stark, said she was as “lovely as a dawn,” before his brother, Lord Robert Baratheon silenced him: “I will hear no more of this. You were no more than a boy during my lady’s time. It is Lady Arya who holds her mirror, not Lady Margaery. A common southern flower cannot be compared to blue winter rose.” 

Nevertheless her beauty could not be denied, and if the invitation to the capital – along with the failed betrothal was true – the southern rose would be a formidable opponent in the battle for queenship. Perhaps moreso than Myrcella. Highgarden had already secured a dragon princess, Rhaenys Targaryen, for their heir, Willas Tyrell. Why not strengthen the bonds even further and wed another dragon? If they did…they would have obtained all that House Martell were destined to achieve when Queen Elia took the throne after the fall of the Mad King. 

The candidate from the stormlands, Shireen Baratheon, may have been a contender, but the greyscale side of her poor face would no doubt be a deterrent for the king. Nonetheless, other noble houses were not without pretty unwed daughters to spare. House Royce and Redwyne were rich enough. The ancient House Bracken, the same household that produced one of Aegon The Unworthy’s mistresses, had five maidens to spare. 

“It is not clear as day,” Sansa said placidly. “The south has many ladies at the age of majority. There are many options for the king.”

“But are they the right ones?!” Jeyne countered, edging herself on with excitement and passion. A horde of servants passed into the hall the two occupied, and her friend had enough sense to stop until they turned the corner. Until the footsteps echoed in the distance. She continued in a hushed whisper. “I don’t think so. Father doesn’t either. You have just as much of a chance than the rest. Maybe even a better one. Now that your old brother is married to that swamp – to that Lady Meera, the north is farther from the crown than ever before. You would bring the north back to the Iron Throne….Sansa, we have been playmates since we were young. You have been a lady of propriety – in mind and spirit - since you were just a little thing. Better than your sister, better than everyone else….I don’t know what happened with Joffrey because you won’t tell me, but maybe it was supposed to happen. Perhaps the princess and the king failed because the old gods and the new wish for it to be you instead. Maybe being the queen is who you were meant to be.” 

The discussion had been peremptorily ended by Septa Mordane, who reproachfully called out to them for being so idle, and announced that the evening feast was beginning to start. As they followed the bony woman with the thin, lipless mouth into the Great Hall, the sentiments behind the words spoken continued to dance in her mind. On this night, the evening dinner did not host bannermen, only members of the household and family. Portions of the long tables were empty, but the noise was still rambunctious and loud. Arya and Meera were seated on the end-table to the right hand side of the hall, laughing along with the master of horse’s twin granddaughters, Bandy and Shyra, as one of the guardsmen, Calon, split red wine over his brown tunic. He joined in their amusement, and casted a long wistful glance at her little sister - the young man already half in love. 

Jory Cassel, Alyn, Tomard, and Ser Rodrik Cassel sat alongside Robb; the five in deep conversation over hot mulled ale and plates filled with sheep liver pies, buttered potatoes and sweet pickled parsnips. Bran was sitting next to father, and gave her a small smile as she walked in. In contrast, Rickon paid little mind to her, only glowered with dissatisfaction at his hot savory food, no doubt waiting for the honeyed apple cakes to arrive. When Sansa took a seat next to Beth Cassel and Palla, the kennel girl, she caught the gaze of her mother, who gave her a commiserate look. There was never a time that her mother did not give her that sort of look nowadays; like a fragile doll on the cusp of breaking again. Father was no better. Underneath the small smiles and good natured attitude was a tentativeness around her that did not exist before Hightower. 

_I would not be such a sad sight if I was queen,_ she thought. They would see her and be proud of her once more if she was the mistress of the entire realm. It was a delicious thought, too sweet not to entertain. A crown on her head, a king to kiss her knuckles. Beside her, Beth talked with animation over seeing her new dresses when they arrived, “oh, you simply must wear them all the very second you have them. The lilac one you described sounded so fine! Such pretty things. Like a true monarch, milady.” 

“Like a true monarch,” Jeyne repeated triumphantly, nodding over to the long table next to theirs. Sansa turned and in the distance, Vayon Poole, the steward made a small bow, and raised his glass to her in solidarity. _It would not be such a sad thing if she was queen._ There she took a deep gulp from her own goblet, the followed it by ripping a piece of meat from the bone. As she savoured the warmth of the wine coagulating with the cooked flesh, she let the idea take root in her mind. 

The seed grew, budding into her dreams. _It made sense,_ she thought to herself, _at Riverrun, grandfather Hoster gave me new garments. New fine rich things._ Attire fit for a queen. Surely the gift was bestowed in preparation for their journey to the capitol…certainly that gift was given in the hopes that Sansa would become the kings consort. For the first time in a while, she believed that mother and father believed in her once more. Believed in the woman that she was born to be – not a failure. In those blissful moments, she did not think of her tormentor Joffrey, she thought of King Aegon and the rumours of his beauty; a dragon with olive coloured skin, violet eyes and dark hair.

But the dream – and all the hopes along with it – died when her mother and father announced their alternate plans. It perished the moment her father uttered the name, “Theon Greyjoy.” Arya was given all of stormlands. The preeminent agora of the east. If Sansa was told in her youth that her wild, dirty little sister would be bestowed such an honour, she would have labeled the messenger as a trifling fool. But now, with Arya returned from White Harbour as a wild northern beauty – still sharp around the edges – the prospect appeared to be less far-fetched, but instead completely and utterly plausible. _The gods must favour this bastard boy. A destitute with fleas for friends and now he has been given the world._

The news of the alliance between the north and the stormlands made it even more probable that her parents would support her in vying for the crown. The older sister must be given to a lord of equal or greater value than the younger. Those were the rules of noble marriage. Father was supposed to say, “and Sansa, you will be one of the suitors for the king. He is without a bride. The north and the riverlands wish for you to be his queen.” But he didn’t. It was not a king they believed she was worthy enough to bed, but a squid lord instead. The captive ward of Winterfell. The young man who chuckled when she flinched at the bloodied dead hares he had caught during a hunting trip with Robb in the Wolfswood. “If they are good enough for your tongue and stomach,” he said with a crooked smirk, “then they are good enough for those pretty blue eyes of yours.” 

A man with nothing but sea, stone, and salt in his palms. The former hostage who enjoyed the company of painted whores…who fled the castle the moment his rebellious father died. That was what mother and father thought their first born daughter was worth. The revelation was cut like a knife to the heart, splitting open flesh and bone until she was nothing more than a hollow vessel. _I am nothing to them now,_ she thought painfully, _I failed with Hightower and now I am being cast aside like unwanted piece of rubble._ In the aftermath, Robb attempted to reason with her: “The Iron Islands should be a friend to Winterfell. The proximity of our territories makes us natural allies. Theon has thousands of ships at his command,” he said, “and I know you don’t believe it but he is a good man, and he’ll be a fine husband to you. This is a good thing. Father has done right by you.” 

Father has done right for _Winterfell,_ not her. Sansa was no fool. If the Iron Islands were gaining power and becoming a threat to the rest of the realm, then surely the strong friendship that Robb had established with Theon in their youth would have been enough to mollify any future political move against the north from the ironborn. Even if a marriage was inevitable, it should have been with her sister; a master of swords, coarse and harsh enough to endure their people. Folk who believed in conquering and raiding in the name of a Drowned God. Thralls in rags, rapers, and thieves should not be her fate. 

She was bred to be a southern wife, not an ironborn whore. 

And now the krakens were living in her dreams, shattering her hopes of a new start. Since that evening, Sansa had barely spoken to mother and father out of spite, only muttering the most passive pleasantries. When the chests of clothing arrived, she barely gave them a glance. There was little point to them now. The ironborn have no need for pearls and diamonds. In the morning, mother had asked if the dresses were suitable, and she could not stop herself from retorting heatedly that ‘it would be more suitable and cheaper to lift the tunics from the backs of the poor then spend coin on fine embroidery.’ 

The chests were still stacked up over on another in the corner of the room. Starring resentfully at them, Sansa lifting herself up from her four postered bed, she grabbed a small plain cloth from her bedside table and dabbed away the surplus of perspiration running down her skin; from the neck and to the back. Wipe away the remnants of the night terror from her skin. Beside her a burning candle lantern made shadows across the walls as Sansa removed the countless sheets of soft furs away from her body. Outside, hungry crows squawked from the rookery and willow wablers chimed in a chorus of dawn. The sun would creep onto the horizon soon enough, and there would be little time to sleep. 

Instead of ordering a handmaiden to come and dress her, she elected to dress herself in a satin periwinkle frock, with coral ribbons. Sansa had gotten used to doing it on her own when she returned to Winterfell. The bruises and scrapes she had received from Hightower were still healing, she refused to let any of the servants see her so wounded and beaten. As she finished placed a jewelled hairnet at the back of her long unbraided hair, there was a knock at the door. 

“Lady Sansa,” said Maester Luwin. “Do forgive me. I hope I did not disturb you, but I heard noises and I thought you might have woken…” 

“The morning birds,” Sansa replied. A half-truth. “Even the sweetest dreams could not keep me from their songs.” 

“Or the foulest nightmares,” he said gently. At that, Sansa could only smile sadly. It was true that there was little she could hide from the maester. Luwin had been the one to tend to her lesions; smeared firemilk over the more battered portions of her body to help them heal faster. He changed the old wrappings into new bandages each day and gave her dreamwine to cure her restless sleeps each night. There was no use hiding from him… 

“I brought you the texts you asked for,” he said casually, he was holding several in his hands. Bundles of ruined books and rolled papers held together by twine. He set them down on the table. A puppet figurine is resting there, with red locks and a mouth painted pink, given to her by her father the day she left for Hightower. It stares back at her, smiling, and Sansa swallows hard. “Septon Chayle is a hard man to convince when it comes to his books, but when he heard that it was under your request, he showed little reluctance to part with them.” 

The first from the mountain of books titled, _'The Grey King and Nagga the Sea Dragon,'_ beside it was a wide piece of parchment with iterations of the Ygg, a pale wood tree carved into a warship that feasted human flesh. The ancestral tales and histories of the High King of the Iron Islands, a timeline of the birth of House Greyjoy, as well as northerner accounts of ironborn raids during the rebellion. 

“Thank you, Measter Luwin,” she said. “They will be of great use to me.” 

“Among the pile is also the excerpts of the documented journal from the Grand Maester Pycelle on King Aegon,” said Luwin. “As you asked for… though I must caution that these accounts do tend to lean towards bias. Pycelle has been a servant of the crown for years, he is therefore quite prone to mincing his words if it gives him favour.” 

“I’m sure that it will be enough.” 

“As I had said before, my lady, but it is good to see that you have taken such a keen interest in your future life as a lady of a great house.” 

“You always taught me to be prepared,” said Sansa. “Knowledge is as good as any weapon. I hope to be well-versed in our kings beliefs and affinities in anticipation for the tourney. I hope to make the north proud during my time south.” 

“Very good, my lady,” he paused, appeared hesitant he spoke again, more softly this time. “And, if I am not too bold in saying it, stop me please, but you have already _made_ the north proud. You have made your mother and father proud…the northern bells rang out the day you were born, and they will ring once more as you leave, but Winterfell will always be your home…should you ever need it.” 

“Thank you,” she said, feeling tears form just above her cheeks. “You have always been good to me, through everything….I will miss you, very much. And I will – I will pray your good health.” 

Maester Luwin smiled and nodded, “may the gods watch over you, child. The old and the new.” He took a fleeting glance at the pile of books on the desk and the staked chests in the corner, and left her room without another word. 

_He is proud perhaps, but he still pities me. Mother and father too,_ she thinks, wiping the tears from her eyes, walking towards the papers and books that retold the stories of the ironborn. _No pity was ever given to a queen. I will make them remember who I was before._ Sansa pushed aside the texts on House Greyjoy, and settled into reading the scripts from the Grand Maester. She would charm him…better than the Dornish princess ever could. And when King Aegon called her name amongst the crowd as his bride to be, his royal consort, there would be nothing but love in their eyes once more.

* * *

“But I want to come as well,” Rickon avowed rather forcefully as Sansa approached the Great Hall. Her family was already breaking their fast at the long table. Her younger brother scratching the tip of his thumb nail, making permanent indentations into the carved wood. “Why should I stay when the rest of you are going?” 

“Have you forgotten me, little brother?” Robb jeered with a grin, popping long strips of bacon burned black into his mouth. “I am staying. I pray that I’m not such a bore to you that you no longer wish to ride into the Wolfswood with me. There are plenty of bucks in the woods to hunt, and I’ll need your keen eyes.” 

“I know the Wolfswood well enough. All of the North too,” he declared hotly; the assertion exaggerated. “But I have never seen the capital, and will never see any place down south if mother and father have any say.” 

“As long as you sleep in these walls and eat our food, young man, this mother of yours has a say in where you go,” Catelyn chided. 

“What do southern lords need with a chief hunter such as yourself,” said Meera in a coaxing manner. Her plate had been picked clean, all that was left were bread crumbs and leftover grape vines. “All those pretty young girls in Winter Town will weep at your absence. And I will be the sorriest of them all. Your brother catches nothing bigger than coney’s.” 

“I caught you, didn’t I?” Robb demurred, and at that Meera’s complexion flushed into a thin shade of red, she nudged him underneath the table affectionately. Rickon groaned audibly at the interaction. 

“Enough,” Ned commanded, looking over at him with stern eyes. “You will travel to the Stormlands for your sisters’ wedding ceremony. That is enough of the south for any northern boy.” 

“But not for the rest of us,” Arya retorted, deadpanned, taking a full bite of warm poppy seed bread from the table. The look she gave her father was causal, but it had a heavy dose of spite laced in between. Arya in the east, Sansa in the west, and Bran in between, but all three would spend the rest of their lives in the south. This would be the last dinner they would have together as a family…It made the rest of the table pause for a brief moment, before Catelyn finally regarded Sansa with a curt, but congenial nod, “You are late.” 

“I was packing my things,” she said, sitting down with the rest of them at the end. “Jeyne was helping, they will be brought down before mid-sun.” 

“And your wedding dress. Is it to your liking?” 

Sansa took a sip of her drink, avoiding the question. In truth, she had not even bothered to search for it. _That dress is for Sansa Greyjoy,_ she thinks inwardly, _I will be Sansa Targaryen, the bride of a dragon, first of my name._ “How long will this tournament be?” 

“The invitation writes that it will be a ten day affair.” Ned said. 

“If the rumours of the grown king are true,” Catelyn spoke up again, stare still fixed on her. “Then there will be a mummer performed each day and night. Not a moment without a song echoing against the walls of the Red Keep. The king has a taste for music and theatrics.” 

“Mummer?” said Bran, shocked but nevertheless delighted at the news. “Arya says that they can change their faces. And they have monkeys for pets, and tame great bears for sport.”

“Oh yes,” Arya spoke up, spreading fruit jam across another piece of bread. “A master mummer has no need for leashes, only his tongue. But it is the speeches that make the plays great…” Then, still holding the knife next to her platter, she twirled the handle with her fingers, and continued in a haunting voice, studying Bran with a roguish smile, “‘here the last titan yet stands, astride the stony shores of its brothers - ’” 

“Father,” Sansa said, interrupting her sisters speech, “you saw the prince being crowned.” 

“Aye, I did. Years ago…with your mother.” 

“What’s he like?” 

“Jovial. Full of life,” said Catelyn, answering for father. “Rather infectious. His laughter filled the room tenfold. Quite the musician as well, much like his late father.” 

“He loves his people,” Ned added. “And his people love him.”

“Strange that he has not married,” Rickon chimed in. “Isn’t he old enough? Does he not like women?” 

“He’s a king, Rickon,” Bran emphasized. “He can marry whenever he likes.” 

“Not without pressure from the realm,” Father warned. “A king he may be, but even a king cannot act without consequence. A crown may rest on his head but like all of us, he is a servant to Westeros. King Aegon will wed soon enough.” 

“If the gods are good, the new queen will be both kind and just,” her mother concluded. 

“How long will the journey take, father?” Bran asked. 

“If the roads are clear. It will take more than a month, a little longer than our ride to Riverrun. We should arrive on the first day of the new moon. Soon enough to attend the masquerade on the first night.” 

Sansa eyes lit up for a moment at the reveal. “Masquerade?” 

“Aye,” her father replied in a monotonous tone. He did not seem particularly enthusiastic about the theme of the feast. “We’re all to play dress up and play along with the king’s games, all of us. The invitation asked that we bring the mask of an animal to wear at court.” 

“There were no masks in any of the chests that were sent,” Arya exclaimed. 

“Your grandfather is taking care of it.” 

“Let mine be a wolf!” Bran insisted. “One that looks like Summer.” 

“And then everyone would know that you are a Stark, brother,” Arya said with a chuckle. “Masquerades are for hiding, not revealing.” 

“Might as well hide his hair too, then.” Rickon pipped up, finally taking a few bites of lamb leg.

* * *

By mid-afternoon, the entire main courtyard within the walls of Winterfell began to galvanize into a constant maniacal commotion that refused to pause for a single moment. Stots carried in carts filled with bundles of root vegetables, raw barley, jars of ale, and packaged meat salted with thyme and rosemary from the village. Other wooden waggons were being wheeled away by servants, laden with trunks containing miscellaneous items meant to service their travel south. Mikken the blacksmith hammered out a long sheet of iron on the anvil block, black smog steaming out from the smelter as workers funnel coals into the side compartment to feed the hot flames. Armoured men wearing thick chainmail gather sharpened steel from the back of the forge to sheath under their belts. 

Women tended to green shrubs and trees; trimming down foliage and collecting buckets water from the well. The four direwolves were all running freely throughout. Summer was pursuing Grey Wind, who darted rapidly past scullery maids from the kitchens holding baskets of fresh baked bread. The most wild of the bunch, Shaggydog, investigated the fenced off areas that held small goats and hens, sniffing the new heaps of hay workers were dropping into the pens. And finally, Nymeria, who leisurely laid on a mound of grass near a building that stored the horses overnight, licking tuffs of grey fur with her tongue. 

_Her beast never strays far from her…None of them do,_ Sansa though to herself, watching the creature carefully before heading towards the stables where she found her sister. 

Wearing a cloak lined with fur trim, Arya was grooming her white female courser just outside the main barn, a yard away from where her direwolf sat. The saddle padding blanket had already been laid down flush against the horse’s back. As Sansa approached, Joseth, a stick-thin man, walked out from the barn carrying the rest of the equipment in his hands and placing it on the side of the fence next to Arya and the tied up horse. In little whispers, her sister spoke to the animal calmly, brushing out snowy short hairs on its neck, its full dark orbs gazing forward. 

“We’re almost ready to leave soon,” said Sansa, folding her hands into her own white cloak laced with mink to keep herself warm. “Mother says in less than an hour.” 

“I know,” Arya answered simply. She turned her back to fetch to the leather latigo carrier, attaching it to the breast collar and then finally lacing it around the coursers neck and stomach. She continued working, fastening the straps and billet, then adjusting the stirrups to the appropriate length.

“It’ll be a long journey to King’s Landing,” she continued as her sister carried on. “Grandfather sent sheltered carriages for us to ride in, so we can be more comfortable. One for the three of us to ride, and the other for our handmaidens.” 

“You and mother go on without me.” 

“You’re going to ride instead?” 

“I promised Bran that I would.” 

“Right,” Sansa gulped, feeling awkward and misplaced at the denied response to the invitation. But she should have expected it. _Bran and Arya were the playmates._ Not her. She had never felt close to anyone. There were five direwolves now, not six. “Of course.” 

“Besides, I’m sure Jeyne will appreciate my spot beside you,” Arya said with a small smile, trying to lighten the mood. “I’m looking forward to the open road…Where else would I be but on the back of a horse?”

It was delivered as a light-hearted joke, a flippant jest from the past, but Sansa could not help but wince at the remark. Arya Underfoot…Arya Horseface. The abrasive monikers…or epithet she used to refer to her sister in their youth; the longfaced girl who could never leave the castle without ruining the dresses the castle seamstresses’ would make. The one with dirt under her fingernails… the one who preferred the company of smallfolk instead of ladies. It was as though the gods were mocking her in some way. The birth of her sister should have been the genesis of a softer companionship than her brother, a female camaraderie bound by blood. But when the dust settled, Arya utterly failed as a sister. She was contrary – the absolute antithesis of a lady – trouncing around in places littered with scum and filth, parts of the world she had no business being in as a nobleborn daughter, and it infuriated her to no end. 

In an act of desperation, she had even asked mother once, when she was very young, as they prayed together in the sept, whether or not she could make another sister for her. “A lady this time,” she said urgently. Catelyn only smiled down at her, “my dear one, your sister is a lady.” But she wasn’t. In name, perhaps, but not in spirit. So she prayed to the gods. But no other sisters followed after. In response, she casted her sister aside and used the stewards daughter as a substitute. 

The further Arya overtly rejected the idea of behaving like a proper lady, the more Sansa felt intuitively compelled to reject her as a sister. And so the names began. If she wanted to run in the grime and muck like a stumbling newborn foal who had not yet learned to walk, then so be it. To which Jeyne gleefully responded during a game of ‘come-into-my-castle,’ that ‘she looks like a horse. With that long face of hers…if she is an animal, then perhaps me must speak her language.’ Then the neighing, snickers, and wickers began. 

When Sansa looked back on those past days, it was sorely evident to her now that the origin of her pent-up resentment was disgracefully misplaced, stemming from the threat of difference between the two, and the absence of similarity. A likeness between sisters that she was so desperate to find but never could. 

And now, after returning from White Harbour, Arya had grown into absolute loveliness. Still fierce, but a beauty nevertheless; her long angular face proportional to the rest of her lithe frame, long wild dark hair sweeping down her back and steel eyes just as constant and enduring as a cold, winters chill. If the rest of the household in Winterfell – along with smallfolk in Winter Town – had not adored her sister before, they surely would now. ‘The lord’s precious daughter has returned,’ they shouted in the streets. ‘The northern she-wolf has returned to the den.’ It stung to hear those chants, the feeling of being discarded burned greater and brighter. _Do they believe that the north was stolen from me the moment Lady drew her last breath?_ She thought sadly. _That I am less of a northern woman because I favour mother instead of father._ The homecoming for her sister was an everlasting applause, and Sansa watched on as Arya effortlessly played the room; made the rounds at each table, ignoring no one. She japed with the cooks daughters, played drinking games with guards and bonded instantly with Meera over mead. 

Everyone wanted a piece of her, and despite the sadness and the overwhelming isolation she felt sitting at the head-table, Sansa could not help but feel a budding sense of pride as well. _She loves them all, _she thought despondently, _and they love her back_. All except for Jeyne, who continued to scowl from the corners of the Great Hall. At first, the stewards daughter attempted to re-initiate their juvenile mistreatment – in some sort of desperate attempt to treat Arya as inferior once more. But the second that she uttered the phrase ‘Horseface,’ there was something inside Sansa that snapped. “She is your liege lords daughter,” she said calmly to Jeyne, who balked considerably at her words, “and we are ladies, not vipers who spew poison.” __

____

Her old playmate ceased the verbal insults after that night, but not the sullen pouts and sharp glares. Jeyne still lived in the past. But all wanted Sansa wanted to do was forget it. 

“Arya,” Sansa began, wanting to build some semblance of a sisterhood between the two of them. The future could be brighter – _would_ be brighter for the both of them. “What I said earlier, about you and the stormlands. I was angry and I – “ 

“Forget it,” Arya said warmly, attaching the noseband to the headstall and latch throat on the white steed. “But…”

“Listen…” her sister started once more, a little more tentatively this time. _She wants something from me,_ Sansa thought. _I’ve never seen her this vulnerable before. Not since she's been back._ “I wanted to ask earlier at breakfast but…I know this whole thing has been hard, for you and for me but…you see, seeing as we’re to marry together – on the same night, I thought I would ask if Jon could attend the ceremony too.” 

Jon Snow. Their fathers bastard boy; her sisters favourite brother. There was little thought that had been made when it came to him since her return to Winterfell. He had joined the Night’s Watch shortly after she had left for Hightower. To guard the great wall in the north from snowy beasts and brutish wildlings. As a child, he was positioned on the outskirts of the family; on the peripheral but never considered on outright outcast to the household. “Bastards did not share the same household as trueborn sons and daughters,” Septa Mordane said to her once after a lesson, “it shames the mother…they should be sent away. That is the ways of things in the south and the north, remember that child.” When Sansa asked her why it was different with this bastard, Mordane merely mumbled in a disapproving voice, “your father is too stubborn, and your mother has little power to object.” 

However, her mother showed little malice towards the bastard. It was only during great house visits that she became much harsher, demanding that he be sent outside – absent from the prying eyes of the noble families as they feasted in the Great Hall. But the dame broke after Arya fled to become a ward in the east…the next day, Jon demanded to leave as well. He was melancholy that night, pleading – practically begging father for permission to swear his oath, to ride north, and ‘be done with it all.’ 

Father eventually acquiesced, insisting to the rest that it ‘was the safest place for him,’ despite mothers protests. And so he fled. Rode into the night to take the black beyond the wall, swearing against the weirwood tree. Taking no wife, holding no lands, fathering no children, wearing no crowns. The sword in the darkness. Until his death. 

And now Arya wanted him back – for one night before she stayed in the south for the rest of the days after. 

“As the captains steward,” she continued as the fidgeted with the leather bridle. “He can leave the Wall with the permission from the Lord Commander. Father says that there would be no reason to refuse the offer.” 

“Arya,” Sansa reasoned, trying to find her words carefully. She knew how this objection would sound to her sister, but she needed to provide her with a more realistic perspective. There would be consequences if he attended, and they would not be positive. “Jon is a bastard, he’s taken the black…it’s not exactly traditional…” 

“He shares our blood, Sansa,” Arya insisted fiercely. “And the man that is to be my husband was a bastard not too long ago as well. Please…let me have this one thing.” 

“Your future husband is Gendry Baratheon. He isn’t a bastard anymore,” Sansa said. “He is legitimized. You would never be his if he wasn’t. Those are the rules. Great house ceremonial weddings do not host natural sons, let alone ones who have sworn themselves to the Watch. The world hasn’t changed, Arya.” 

“Not yet.” 

“It seems as though there is little use in asking me,” she interjected, a little more curtly than usual. “You’ve already decided.” 

“No matter,” Sansa continued, now matter-of-fact. _It will be your wedding he attends, not mine._ “I have no qualms. He can attend the wedding if you wish it.” 

“Thank you.” 

There was a look of positive relief and joy that radiated from her sister. Arya smiled at her, and for a brief moment Sansa felt the urge to embrace her. The pull towards a sisterhood that she once rejected when she was a young girl. Feeling awkward and unsure, she buried the instinct down deep in her belly and instead stared at the hem of her dress, and noticing a single threads loose from the stitching, dangling alone and away from where it was meant to be. There were a thousand things that she wished she could convey, but they all seemed lost and muddled together when they reached her mouth. Feelings too big to squeeze through her small throat. _I could never understand you, but I want to now. Will you let me? I don’t feel like a Stark anymore…not since Hightower. Not since Lady died. This is my home but I feel so far away from my mother and father…my brothers and sister. You all look at me as if you have seen a ghost. Would you see me as clearer if I was queen?_

All those confessions felt too forward; they could not grow from the grounds of the stables of Winterfell, not between women who saw each other more as stranger than sister. Mayhaps – in another time – when they trusted one another more than they do now…their lives could be shared. No bridge between them existed, but she could garner enough courage to starting building one. 

“Perhaps we…ought to get ready together,” Sansa swallowed deep and hard, awaiting rejection once more. “For the masquerade. I could help you pick out the best garment to wear, one that goes well with your mask.” 

“Like old times,” Arya chuckled, but looked uncomfortable, feeding the bridle bit to the horse, who gnawed at the steel that settled against its molars. “We were just children then, but it still haunts me, the way things were…Will it – will it embarrass you if I spoil my pretty dress before the ceremony?” 

Another jape laced with truth. _Do you accept me now?_

“Not this time.” _Yes._

* * *

They had arrived at the capitol earlier than expected, in the middle of the night. 

When the large group of northern men and women on horses passed through the great ruin fortress of Harrenhal and Hayford Castle sitting on a hilltop, hoots and hollering started to erupt from the soldiers and guards, signalling their journey would soon come to an end. Jeyne Poole was asleep next to Sansa before the sun started to set, head resting on the curtained windows of the carriage, snoring softly, unperturbed by the noises outside. Before twilight broke, her mother had been re-reading a series of letters waxed red with the falcon seal of House Arryn, face weathered with unease as she perused each line again and again until dusk swept the lands and she could no longer study the words written on the parchment. 

As the night started to fall, Sansa took away her own book and watched as the darkness creep upon the countryside, pretending the cart was a ship, that the wheels that bumped against rocks were sirens pushing and scratching against the boat to force them all overboard. Soon enough, the movement came to a halt and she could hear her father bellowing out to the watchmen from above the Dragon’s Gate, one of the seven entrance points in King’s Landing. There was a pause, followed by hoarse shouting coming from many male voices above, before the sounds of the portcullis opening up reached her ears. Crossing the threshold into the city walls, she remembered Septa Mordane telling her that during Maegor The Cruels’ reign, had his queen, Alys Harroway, severed into seven pieces after he executed and tortured her. Put each piece of her on spikes; one for each gate. Sansa wondered, as the northern guards started to cross through the threshold, which part of the woman the cruel king placed on this entranceway. 

No doubt her former betrothed would have approved. Joffrey had frequently insisted that there was greatness in extremes during her stay in Hightower, ‘the gods favour men who push the world forward,’ he said once while sipping his wine one evening during dinner, catching looks at his father from across the table, searching for a sign of approval, ‘even if there is a cost.’ And costs to his actions would come, but not at his expense. 

The realm and all its trifles were the young man’s playthings; to kill and maim and hit. ‘It will die one day,’ he said once, chided his little brother for crying when he shot a gull from the sky with his crossbow from his chambers, ‘what does it matter if it is sooner rather than later,’ and carried on laughing as he aimed into clouds as a sobbing Tommen clutched his calico kitten tight, searching for another target to send into the Honeywine river. All Sansa could do is watch, force a smile, and play along. _Pretend that he is your light, or you will be next. He will point his arrow at you, and you will be cast into the waters with the rest of the birds._

Once they crossed through the doors, the darkened city greeted the northmen hoard with sand-coloured walls that shifted into a filtered blue under the nocturnal skies. The roads were worn down and cobbled, undisturbed dirt settled into places between the stone. The tall building of the East Barracks City Watch greeted them first. A few gold cloaks were situated at the corners, black breastplates ornamented with four golden disks, equipped with mail armour and iron cudgels, holding iron longswords and dirks. Still and unmoving, the officers gave the carriage a cursory glance before switching to the host of horsemen guards that walked behind. 

A portion of the Hill of Rheanys could be seen in close in distance has they headed west, but she could not make out how high it stood unless she poked her head from out of the steel blue draped curtains. Sansa could hear Jory Cassell instruct men from behind that the group would head towards the Dragon’s Pit, use the Street of Silk until they eventually reached the Street of Sisters. “Lord Stark says that Flea Bottom is to be avoided,” he said with a shout. “The long way is the safer one.” 

“If I am to wed a man from Flea Bottom,” an indignant voice spoke up – her sister – out from the ahead. “Then it is safe enough for us to travel through it.” 

“The bowl of the city is no place for nobles, lady,” he cautioned. “A poor man that dwells in the bottom is a desperate one, especially in the middle of the night, when his pockets are penniless and his belly is filled with cheap wine. We need no trouble tonight.” 

“Then I am to fear the poor,” she countered. “They are just like us, only with nothing” 

“A man with nothing has nothing to lose, Arya,” Bran interjected. “And everything to gain.” 

"So do we." 

At her little sisters words, the conversation dwindled into silence as the cavernous ruins of the pit became more visible. Several northmen gawked at the burnt monument dome that had collapsed into itself. The home of royal dragons; of the great Balerion – The Black Dred – the one who drew black fire from his breath. 

Heading west down the Street of Silk, the host passed multiple pleasure houses until it eventually reached a brothel owned by Chataya . An upscale whorehouse, one fit for rich men and kings. The establishment stood two stories tall, with a stone ground floor and a timber one on top. A round turret rose from one corner of the structure, its windows leaded and framed with glass. Feint noises could be heard from within. As the carriage passed through the building, Sansa could smell exotic spices and incense wafting in the air. One guard told another that he ought to enter himself into the tournament, “just to afford one night with one of those fine Summer Isle whores wrapped around my cock.” In an instant, Jory Cassel silenced the japing before her irate mother could reprehend the man for using such a coarse tongue in the presence of her children. 

The road connected to the Street of Sisters, which took them deep into the heart of the city, at the centre square where several planted trees were line in two rows on each end. Beside her, Jeyne finally stirred to rub her sleep from her well-rested eyes, asking in a tired voice whether or not they were close to arriving. Sansa shook her head, eyes watching the Great Sept of Baelor that stood beyond the Guildhall of the Alchemists rise before her as the horses that drew the carriage made a sharp turn south. Named after the septon king, the building was surrounded by a white marbled plaza, its lofty dome made up of glass, gold, and crystal, with seven shinning belled towers standing tall and serene under its plinth, one for each god of the south. Past the towers were expansive gardens, blooming gillyflowers, black lotus, and tansy. _A wedding will happen there soon,_ she thought dreamily, if the gods are good I will be the bride. 

Turning south connected the House Stark bannermen onto the main road that would led straight to the Red Keep, where it sat perched on Aegon’s High Hill. Though the fortress was not as large as the castle of Winterfell, it stood the atop the mountainous hill like an ominous pale red beast, still as stone, surveying its elemental objects; the burning rocks from the three peaks, the cool sands dusted over the pathways of the city, the dry humid air, and salted water from the Blackwater Bay. Its seven massive drum-towers crowned with iron ramparts. Even at a great distance, Sansa could see little golden cloaks guarding portions of the area, some walking back and forth, others stationed in one spot, figures motionless and straight. 

As the northmen hoard reached the barbican, past the battlement, the fortified outpost started to open when the first of the armoured horsemen reached the bronzed gates. Chain-mailed horsemen holding the grey and white direwolf sigil started to dispense throughout the walls of the inner yard that held a vast, open cobbled square. Among the small group of crownland servants standing to greet House Stark there stood a slender shadow, draped in a slashed velvet plum-coloured doublet. The man took several paces forward, watching intently as men started to dismount from their saddles, giving away their coursers away to the stablemen and unpacking luggage from wooden carts. Peering through the clothed shutters of the carriage, Sansa caught the face, the pointed beard, neck clasped with a mockingbird pin, and felt her heart quicken. _This is a face she had seen before, many times, in Hightower._

“Lord Stark,” the tall thin man bowed dramatically in front of her father, mouth drawn up in a smirk. “Welcome to the capitol. The king sends his regards.”

“Lord Baelish,” said Ned, unsmiling as he handed his white steed off to a young man dressed in brown cowhide. He tersely removed his leathered gloves, and looked back at Jory Cassel who was still seated on his own horse. “I had not expected to see a member of the small counsel greet us so late into the night.” 

“Word of your impending arrival traveled fast,” Petyr replied with a chuckle, but his catlike green eyes did match his smile . “A raven was sent from the gates. I must admit, among all our friendly guests, that I was most eager receive you. The night could not keep me away, my lord.” 

A guard opened the doors of the carriage, and her mother stepped down first. Sansa descended after, followed by Jeyne. The confinement of the carriage allowed her to observe the interaction between her father and Lord Baelish better. Her sister, Arya, stilled hooded, was gently smoothing the skin of her white courser, removing the reigns and unfastening the saddle stirrups next to her little brother. Though she appeared occupied, Sansa could see her grey eyes share looks between Bran as they listened on intently while they tended to their horses by the large stable nearby. The giant direwolves, Nymeria and Summer, ran on through various parts of the grounds, sniffing the floors, playfully biting and chasing one another as the kings fearful servants stepped back whenever the beasts drew near. 

Catelyn came forward, and there she could see her mother muster a genuine smile as she looked upon the Master of Coin. The demeanour of the man changed slightly as she walked towards them; a small glimmer emerged in his eyes, indefinite but present. Sansa remembered from her interactions with Lord Baelish that the man grew up with her mother and her aunt at Riverrun. The depth of their history pulsed between their gaze, but his eyes hummed with much more intimately than Catelyn, whose warmth was solely sourced through a familial affection. It was clear that his affections ran much deeper. _He loves her in a way that she cannot return,_ she thought sadly. 

“Petyr,” she said, addressing him with his first name with a short smile. 

“My lady.” Petyr dipped his head forward again, his metal bird pin catching against in the moonlight as he bent forward. 

“It is good to see you again, my old friend.” 

“Thank you, my lady. Though I do wish your dear father could say the same,” said Petyr. “He was rather insistent on my absence when House Tully arrived, despite me being a small council member, but he can count himself fortunate that I have been called away from the city on the king’s orders.” 

“Away?” Catelyn said, both confused and shocked by the news. “Just days before the kings tournament?” 

“An unfortunate circumstance has come to our attention,” he said. “No doubt, you have heard of the troubles at the Eyrie.” 

“We have,” said Ned sternly. “I also hear that the Lord Robin is being treated very well in the stormlands.” 

“True, but alas, your poor sister-in-law is quite distraught over losing her sweetrobin to Lord Stannis,” Petyr responded. “The king has graciously arranged for me to settle the dispute between her and the lords of the Vale. Come to some sort of…amiable arrangement for both parties.” 

“An interesting choice. To send the Master of Coin to mediate such a conflict.” 

“In most cases, I would agree, lord. But in this case, I am the only choice,” the smirk remained almost permanent on Lord Baelish’s face. The objection made by her father did not seem to disturb him in the slightest, instead it was interpreted as a trifle sort of amusement. At Hightower, Sansa found in her time with him that there was nothing that the friendly man could not grin at – even an insult. “Often times in these sort of sticky situations, a friend that shares history is needed most of all. And I assure you that the Lady Lysa is quite fond of me.” 

Before a response could be made, a fined clothed man entered into the courtyard through a postern gate from an enceinte, dressed in ocean-blue doublet and crimson undershirt. He sauntered through, parting his welcomes to the crowds. She had seen the balding old man before in Riverrun. Ser Robin Ryger, the captain of the guard. A fine and ferocious warrior despite his age. 

“My lord,” he grumbled out, making his bows and pleasantries to the three. “Lady – pardon the interruption but Lord Hoster has requested your presence.” 

“Very well,” Ned nodded. “Jory! See that Bran and the girls find their lodgings. Accompany them, help them find their footing – ”

“Forgive me, lord,” Robin interjected. “But the Lord Hoster has requested the presence of all the members of House Stark, including your children.” 

“What a delight! A clandestine meeting between wolves and fish in the middle of night. My lord, your words have most certainly awoken the spiders that creep within these walls if they have not been listening already,” Petyr joked as he drew away to mount his own steed. “Nevertheless, that is my cue to leave. It is good to see you both,” he said warmly, though his eyes stayed fixed on Catelyn. “Please do enjoy the celebrations whilst I am away, I am sure it will be quite the occasion. I am most sorry to miss it.”

“We are sorry to see you go, lord,” said her mother, pleading urgently with her eyes. “Please…give our love to my sister. Be good to her, Petyr. Help her see reason.” 

“Always, my lady,” he smiled pleasantly. “I can never refuse you – or your sister. For a mockingbirds heart is forever tied to the daughters of House Tully.” And at that he rode on with his armoured guards, but not before casting a long deep glance at Sansa. She wanted to shout at him as he left through the gates. _I have it, I have it, its inside the doll and I am afraid of what it will mean if I keep it. Of what it might cost me._ But she knew that she could never speak it him. He had told her once to never trust anyone with the information she had, even himself. ‘Often holding your tongue is much stronger than wagging it. A secret known only to you becomes less powerful the moment you share it with another pair of ears,’ he told her as they walked through a passageway one evening in Hightower. ‘If you have something of value, keep it. Guard it. Knowing an enemies weakness gives you the knowledge to move across the field more freely. Let those you may hurt you continue to think you are less powerful than you really are.’ 

As the procession in the square eventually began to scatter, her personal belongings – the chests filled with lovely fine clothes and jewels made for a kraken bride – were taken away to an unknown room in western wing along with Bran and Arya. Before leaving, there was some dispute over the direwolves being caged. An attractive steward with high cheek bones and gap between his teeth argued with her father that the creatures should be contained in a kennel with the rest of the royal canines. Her little sister started to object profusely to the demands. Nymeria started to growl incessantly, her outer lips curling to show her white pointed teeth coated in a thick layer of saliva. Summer soon followed suit, ears pulled back, biting the air. Arya demanded that the wolf belonged at her side, and there she would stay. “Nymeria stays with me. And if you lock her up, I will stay in the cage with her if need be,” she said smoothly, tongue cutting sharp. “If she is to be treated like a caged animal, then so am I.” 

Father eventually relented, and ensured that the direwolves were well behaved, but the other man did not seem convinced. At the promise the two large animals quieted down; Summer waited patiently for Bran to move even an inch. Nymeria began licking the her sisters cheek affectionately, and Arya returned the favour by scratched the side of her neck. Sansa bit her lip, the four were so in sync with one another – whole and complete. Though she would never admit it, she wanted nothing more for them to be gone; it hurt too much. Nymeria, Summer, Grey Wind, Shaggydog and even Ghost. But where was Lady? Their own sister was lost, and it mattered little to them. They lived on to love their human companions, all the while the prettiest one of all lay buried deep in the southern soil, far away from the northern lands that bore her. 

The panting but shallow breathes of her own direwolf echoed in her ears, a ghost from the past tormenting her. She swallowed the scene up bitterly before turning her back to follow mother and father into the Red Keep entrance. There, Ser Robert guided the family into the eastern wing, towards Lord Hoster Tully’s temporary apartments. “House Lannister is being hosted in this part of the castle,” he said gruffly, “though I have only seen the second tier members. All prancing about with their tails lifted high. Saw Ser Tyrek a few moons ago. Handsome lad. Much more amiable than that tosser of a knight Lancel.”

“The first born from Lord Kevan?” Ned asked. 

“That’s the one, lord,” nodded Robert with a frown. “Since his knighthood, the little lions nose couldn’t be further away from the sky. If the gods are just, a lance will knock him off his horse in the next few days so his golden face can be re-introduced back to the ground.” 

At that Ned gave a short, complimentary chuckle at the sentiment. The small group reached the door at the end of the corridor and Ser Robert secured them inside where Hoster Tully was seated near the fireplace, accompanied with a glass of Arbor wine that was already half empty. In the corner, there stood three young ladies holding metal coffers.

“Come, come inside!” Hoster said warmly, moving his hands to beckon them forward. “All of you. I come bearing gifts.”

“Here,” he gestured to the servant women standing behind them. “The disguises to be worn tomorrow night for the masquerade. Handle them with great care.” 

“For you, Brandon Stark, the wolf of Raventree Hall,” Hoster spoke from his chair, with a wide smile. “A black crow. For its wisdom and cunning.” 

The maiden servant who stepped forward first donned in simple garments that hung loose, skirted over towards her brother, holding the metal coffer out to him to lift the lid, revealing a mask in the shape of a raven; its long pointed beak protruding at the centre to give room for the nose as pitch black as a starless, cloudless nights sky. The lines of its waterline painted crimson, and speckled all throughout were tracings of feathers in the colour of sterling silver that started on the forehead and lifted up beyond the hairline. 

Hands behind his back, Bran looked on at the mask inquisitively. The world was a curious thing to behold and assess for her little brother, no matter if the thing was vile or plain or beautiful or ugly. All its contents were to be pondered at with gentle, sweet eyes. The young servant then closed the box and rested it close to his chest for him to take. He smiled down at the girl, whose ears turned a bright shade of red as she bowed graciously, and walked to the corner of the room next to the cupbearer. 

“For you Sansa,” he said. “A vibrant phoenix for the wolf who will temper the beasts in the sea. A symbol of rebirth after destruction.” 

With a heavy gulp and an inhale, Sansa watched as the tallest maid stepped forward to gift her own veneer. Peering inside as the cover raised, the disguise for her own face dazzled as bright as flames; as if oiled paints had been thrown into the fires, forcing it to combust with the fluorescence. Wisps of magenta, canary yellow, poppy and amber along with tuffs of blue crystalized beading spattered across the edges against a golden foundation. The colours meddled together, moving into patterns that curved and spiralled out. Different from the dark raven mask that covered the top of the face, the phoenix was moulded to fit her face entire, its rich colouring ending at the start of the beaked nose, as the bottom half had been painted white, its lips painted into gold. 

As the face of the bird stared up at her, she felt an enduring sort of affection for it. _A creature that rises from the ashes,_ she thought, holding it up to tilt, watching the light catch upon its glistening details. _I hope that you are my fate._

“Thank you, my lord.” 

“And finally, Arya,” Hoster waved out to the last servant maid. “The wolf who will stride through the mightiest storms. A rare bird that is both beautiful and dangerous, but always graceful. The black swan.” 

Finally, a pretty short blonde-haired maiden with a tanned complexion, much younger than the first two, made her way over to her sister. With a sheepish grin, she opened the box up, presenting a magnificent golden visor nestled underneath dark blue silk. There, attached to the shining tow-coloured mask, sprouted real ebon feathers that stretched up and outwards; its filaments catching into deep teal green under the candlelight. From the front of the brow down to the bridge of its nose was the swan-head, its neck traveling up and splitting into two at the top of the head, before spinning down both sides, where it sprouted into filigree at the base of the cheeks to reveal the wearers jawline. 

With enough time to pick the mask up from its base, Arya looked at it pensively, and while her face held a somewhat disinterested expression as she examined the object, she nonetheless caught her sisters grey eyes flicker with satisfaction as she set it back down. After taking the box, the small girl practically skipped away to join the rest of the maidens, creating once more a line of three. 

“The animals chosen have been selected and claimed as your own,” Hoster announced, taking a sip of wine from his goblet. “The king has insisted that each nobleman wear the image of a different creature. For you, Ned, I was able to take the direwolf. And I will be a trout. We will claim our house sigils. There is little use hiding our identities to the world.” 

“And Edmure and I?” Catelyn asked. 

“An owl for you, and a parrot for your brother.” 

“All birds,” noted Bran from behind. “Why?” 

“For flight,” Hoster answered simply. “Liberation. The harbingers of a new season, one of change.” 

“Before I bid you all farewell,” the old man continued. “I have another gift for you, Bran, after your stay here in the capital you will be accompanied by your great-uncle Ser Brynden Tully back to Raventree Hall, where you will stay as ward until your soon-to-be bride flowers. We mean to make you into a knight.” 

“Truly?” 

“Truly.” 

“I’ll be calling you Ser in no time at all,” Arya teased him with a smile, and Bran returned the smile sheepishly. 

“What is she like?” Bran asked, his eager eyes fixed on Hoster, as if he had been hoping to ask this question for a long time. “Lady Bethany.” 

“Ah,” Hoster answered slyly. “The Lady Bethany is still young but very pretty. Dark hair, and darker eyes. Gentle, and very fond of reading. Her father, Lord Tytos loves her a great deal. You will have him and her six brothers to contend with, I’m afraid.” 

“There will be no lonesome days at Raventree Hall,” said Ned, smiling at him. “That’s for certain.” 

_A ancient noble house deep within the riverlands. It is a simple match,_ she thought, _a good one, a safe one._ When her mother and father broke the news to Bran it was just a day after she had been told of her own engagement to House Greyjoy. Sansa had been silently sowing needle and thread with Jeyne and Septa Mordane when she could hear the courtyard rustle with laughter and jeering. Peering out to look, she saw Robb teasingly messing up Bran’s deep ear-length auburn hair as Rickon snickered in the corner. “Off to be a southern man, are you? You’ll have a new castle to climb soon enough.” He jeered, as he held his little brothers cheeks and kissed his forehead in delight. “I pray she is what you deserve.” 

“If he has any luck she will carry the image of the great Queen Black Betha herself,” Arya said, smiling from the sidelines, dressed in breeches and leathered armour, an iron sword in hand. Though Sansa could see that the announcement, and the hope of wedding a beautiful girl from the south, did not seem to effect Bran in the slightest. Instead, his eyes continued to wander in secret over to Meera, as she started to spar against Arya in the training pit while the others observed the match unfold. Sansa hoped, for the sake of the family – and for the Lady Bethany – that the attraction he felt towards his sister-in-law would fade. 

_Let the lady of the river weirwood tree be enough dampen his lust for the crannogwoman,_ Sansa thought pensively. _Or it will be a long life of torment; to watch the woman he cherishes the most love his brother instead, and not him._

“Now, I must speak privately with your mother and father,” Hoster spoke ominously, breaking her revere. “But before I send you all away, I must caution you: there are many nobles amongst us here in the Red Keep, but not all are noble in blood. Beware of honied words. Like these masks, the nature of men lies beneath, and it is not always honourable. There are vipers lurking in the grass here, and spiders on the walls. Do not speak without care of what you may be giving away.” 

The sentiment echoed one she had heard many times during her stay in Hightower. ‘Trust is for tales told to children to help them sleep at night, no more than an illusion strung in mummer songs, little dove,’ Cersei said to her. ‘Close the doors to it and the world will never surprise you.’ Sansa clutched the box that held her mask, feeling the heat rise in her body, the game of trickery and falsehood swimming to the surface. All the beautiful noble women and lords men, all here to gain the kings favour. 

With all the secrets she had embedded deep in her heart, she would need a disguise now more than ever, if she was to achieve the title of queen. Casting a glance over at her mother and father, who were beginning to sit next to Hoster, Sansa would show them that she is more than what they bargained for. _I am not broken yet,_ she vowed. _I will have more than salt waters and stone at my leisure, I will own it all._

* * *

The next day, Sansa ascended from her bedchambers in the early hours of dawn, the sun hit her brows, and the cool, flowing breeze from Blackwater Bay shifting through the sugar maple leaves. Restless and tired from another night of deep dreaming; where the giant squid found her amongst the corals and consumed her, whole and alive. In its sticky stomach, she made her home. Fed herself on the remnants of the fallen victims her beast hunted in the ocean waters. The beast gave her dead lions to feast on, their golden hairs catching between her teeth. 

When the monster cried, so did she. When the monster bled, she did too. And when it died, she did as well. 

Each night terror that materialized from her dreams concerned her. Her mind appeared fixated on the kraken…but each time Sansa woke she thought of nothing but the crown. It was as if she was living a dual life; at night, she swam with the fishes, but during the day she reminisced over the hopes of a coronation instead. Split in two, one side battling against the other. 

Nowadays, Sansa found little to no solace in sleep. So when she woke on the first day as an official guest in the Red Keep, she eagerly opted to explore the corners and spaces of the castle, to meet or become reacquainted with new noble ladies and lords who had already found their lodgings on the great fortress. Without the stewards daughter as a companion to her expedition, she left her courters in the western wing, where her house shared lodgings with the House Baratheon. As she walked down the long passageway, she saw two men huddled near an alcove at the exit that led to the Great Hall, whispering to one another in hushed tones. The shorter, slighter and older man had an weathered, ordinary countenance with thinning brown hair and a peppered beard; fashioning a simple green woollen mantle, with a small, minuscule pouch draped around his neck. The other was younger, with thick, black hair. He was broad-shouldered and inexorably tall. Arms crossed against a rich leathered tunic, the young man appeared irritable and morose as he listened to the old man lecture him with calm words. 

At the sound of her footsteps, the figures glanced up in her direction and hurriedly rushed into the room closest to the alcove. At the whip of the lords green cloak, Sansa noticed the white onion sigil at the base of the cloth. Ser Davos Seaworth. The landed Onion Knight. The Lord of Rainwood. The man who can wield any ship safely through the stormy waters of Ship Breaker Bay, the former smuggler with lost fingers, and the most trusted advisor to House Baratheon. As she passed the doorway she heard faintly overheard one of the man speaking: “A Stark daughter, no doubt,” the gruff voice answered beyond the door, followed by the indistinct grumblings. “Not yours, the other one. They all have the Tully look – except for her.” 

_So that grumpy man is my sisters betrothed…not amiable looking at all, but he does have the look of a knight,_ she thought, _gods hope that he is strong enough to withstand her._

The Great Hall was plagued with noble lords and ladies strung together in groups, some that she recognized from previous events and tournaments over the years. A cluster of members from House Lannister stood near the entrances doors, alongside Maester Pycelle. Tywin Lannister, the Lord of Casterly Rock, dressed in scarlet robes pieced together with gilded metals, spoke sternly to the grand maester while the rest of the lions prowled in the distance, watching over the scene with green eyes and proud, dangling tails. The two coquettish sisters from the lesser faction of the house, Cerenna and Myrielle Lannister, gossiped with sparkling animation beside their mother, Myranda Lefford, who looked as though she were a shrivelled up raison. 

A few feet away stood Kevan Lannister, with his chinless, chicken-legged wife, Dorna Swift, and their four children; Lancel, Martyn, Willem, and Janei. The youngest – still just a girl – twirled around the cavernous room, the circular spins lifting her silk dress into the air. Beside them, stood the great knight himself, Ser Jaime Lannister, clutching his greatsword at his hips. The reluctant heir to the westernlands. The gallant, wandering knight spent occupied most of his time in the presence of his twin sister, rather than his father. Many nights Hightower hosted Ser Jaime…and many nights Hightower relished in his attendance; bated moans behind a closed door, a man and a woman seen naked within the crack of a wooden door, clawing hungrily at one another on-top of white silk sheets…and her, breathing hard and fast, noiselessly scurrying off to hide in the dark. 

When she first met him, she thought instantly how alike Ser Jaime was to her beloved Joffrey. How painfully right she was in that moment….At the bitter and horrifying thought, Sansa considered of the doll secured between papers and books inside her desk and shivered. She should not have brought that damned, wretched thing with her. It was foolish. Littlefinger would have scolded her for it. If she had any sense she would burn it…and with it, burn the potential danger of lions pursuing after her, once they discovered she knew their secret. 

_Bastards,_ she thought ominously, _all of them. Sweet little Tommen with his kittens, and quick-witted Myrcella and her books. And the horrible, brutal Joffrey._

In attempt to push Joffrey and the little doll figurine from her thoughts, Sansa switched her notice to inevitable the absence of Genna Lannister, her lord husband, and her issue. The infamous siege at the Twins after Lord Walder Frey took her uncle hostage, it left all the members of House Frey who weren't slaughter in exile. Outcasts, most forced to ride north and take the black at the Wall. Others paid homage to the Faith, sequestered into a life of servitude to the gods, working to rid themselves of their liege lords wickedness and greed. The rest fled to the westernlands, where the great lion of the rock allowed them to survive without the persecution of her grandfather. 

The passive protection Tywin Lannister provided to his sister, Genna, and his brother-in-law, Emmon Frey, and her children and grandchildren, Cleos, Lyonel, Tion, and “Red” Walder, had soured relations with the riverlands. And though the great lion insisted that his family members were seeking penance, it was not enough to convince her grandfather. Even if the queen regent banished them from court. Dubiously, Sansa wondered what dim-witted, dolt orchestrated that the two feuding houses share the same wing in the Red Keep….There would surely be a fight between fish and lion before the tournament is over. 

In the centre of the Great Hall was the great monument that towered over all the men and women. Sitting on the raised iron dais, in front of high narrow steps was the Iron Throne. The asymmetric monstrosity of spikes and jagged edges and twisted metals. A thousand blades from the surrendered enemies of Aegon the Conqueror. The seat looked painful to sit in, with fanged steel and pointed blades pointed outwards – still sharp enough to draw blood. A king should never sit easy, and many died sitting upon that throne. 

Many men died in this great hall during the civil wars in the crownlands began to brew. Her uncle Brandon Stark died here, heir to Winterfell…before the alchemists burned him alive with green wildfire on the order of the Mad King. He burned his son here too. The beautiful prince Rhaegar Targaryen. For treason and conspiracy. Sansa wondered if the jade flames burned slow enough for the victims to speak, or even scream, until the fires burned them down into nothing. It seemed like a farce, watching all these nobles congregated and chatting happily upon a floors that witnessed the executions. Sansa would dance on these floors; the ground decorated with crimson carpets was a gravesite for her uncle, but a paraquat for her. Time changes all. 

Sansa turned away from the crowd…the king was not present and she suddenly felt no energy to sing songs today. Later, she would be the practiced little bird she was brought up to be, she would hum all the enthralling hymns the lords and ladies loved to hear from a young, beautiful maiden. And as she sang her pretty tune, she would signal to the rest that she was a threat; a rival to the other young girls who vied for the kings heart. But for now, the pleasantries could wait, she simply wanted flowers and peace under the morning sun. 

It was not a long walk to the palace gardens. Through the arched gates, the main parterre – the heart of the path – was situated on a level substrate, consisting of plant beds, flowered arrangements in proportioned patterns that separated and connected to various paths. In the middle stood an enormous glistening fountain sculpted into the shape of a three-headed white dragon; its long mouth cascading water in every direction. Walking past a group of southern ladies conversing in front of the fountain, Sansa followed the path on the left-hand side, where willow trees shrouded her in complete shade with its long handing branches, sending her into the depths of a maze that never seemed to end. 

Tall irises fenced the stoned pavement, gave off a delightful perfumed fragrance. Ponds filled with koi, suriname toads, and dogweeds were entrapped amongst wild hibiscus flower bedding and shrubberies. Beyond green trellis walls with grape vines featured a forest of conical dwarf yew trees. At the end of the botanical path, in the partial shade, featured a bush of perennial plants with thick, succulent leaves, fleshy stems, and clusters of pink star shaped petals. Sansa marched toward it, feeling the tranquil zephyr caress her auburn hair, moving the red threaded tendrils across her cheeks and into her pale face.  
“Those are sedums,” a voice came from behind, interrupting her attempt to touch one of its stalks. “Beautiful colouring. High septums once thought they could cure a broken heart.” 

A pretty, young woman stood behind her, draped snugly in sheer pale green and blue silks against her slender but curved figure, flowing with the winds, as weightless as air. Her unblemished face was heart-shaped and her unbraided brown curled locks hung down her cheeks, like two streams running parallel to one another, ending at where her bosom began. She held two stalks of baby’s breath in her palm, green stems spurting little white bulbs at the tips, and handed them off to a shorter, stubbier lady that stood next to her. 

The little rose, grown – her greatest rival to the throne. 

“You,” she said abruptly. “You’re Lady Margaery Tyrell.” 

“Very astute,” Margaery shyly trilled out, the ladies behind her covered their hands to mute their giggles. She gave her the sweetest of smiles and continued, “and you are Lady Sansa, daughter of Eddard Stark, the Warden in the North. Such an honour, it is.” 

The young maiden gave her a polished curtsy, and the three ladies shadowed her movements, like duplicated, synchronized silhouettes at dusk. Sansa responded in kind with her own formal greeting of civility, suddenly feeling very bare, the optics of the situation dawning on her. With no distinguished nobleborn ladies trailing behind her, Sansa ultimately appeared less important and noble to the rest of the visitors. She should have brought Jeyne with her, after all. 

Margaery waved her one arm back to present the ladies standing dutifully behind her. “May I introduce my faithful lady attendants…”

“Lady Meredyth Crane of Red Lake.” The shorter, sturdier one of the three. Black, straight hair pulled back to reveal a full, square face, flat nose and an olive complexion. Glinting brown eyes set deep within their sockets traced with kohl. The friendliest one of the bunch, she beamed at her, smile wide and inviting. 

“Lady Alysanne Bulwer of Blackcrown.” All bone and no fat was the feudal lady of the singing cliffs. With her slanted shoulders, she regarded Sansa as if she were a unsettling riddle that needed to be solved. 

“And from my own house, Lady Elinor Tyrell.” The last one was willowy woman with a narrow build, her hair the same shade as Margaery. Dressed in pink Myrish lace, she gave her a somewhat bored, blank expression. _This one is already married to Ser Alyn Ambrose…the unfaithful flirt,_ she thought before letting her gaze fall to the woman’s round stomach, and she is carrying his child. 

“It is truly a wonderful thing to meet you at last,” said Margaery, the saccharine smile permanently fixed on her lovely face. “But you must have only just arrived, yes?” 

“Yes,” she answered back. “Just last night.” 

“Then this is your first time in the gardens?” 

Sansa hesitantly nodded at the question. 

“Oh, well then you simply must allow me give you a tour!” Margaery said excitedly, clapping her hands together in enthusiasm. “House Tyrell arrived several days ago…so I’ve had plenty of time to traverse these grounds with my family. They’ve all grown tired of them. Now no one will walk with me, besides my faithful ladies, of course. You would do me a great honour if I had your company.” 

“If it please you,” rolled out of her lips before she could even decide for herself on whether or not she wanted the company. She had ventured out here to be a recluse, but unfortunately it was poor manners to refuse, and Margaery had a charm about her that was impossible to deny. _Like the sister that I always wanted,_ she thought, _graceful, comely and good-natured._ It was easy to forget that this woman was here to claim that very thing that Sansa was striving towards; the chance of becoming queen. ‘Treat your rivals like friends,’ Littlefinger muttered strictly into her ear, ‘be so amiable and good that their eyes would never suspect you to be false. Not for a moment. Not in your life. Not until their hands are left empty, not until you have everything that want all that you want and more.’ 

“Only if it pleases _you,_ Lady Stark.” Margaery waltzed up to her, extending a hand for her to hook around hers. Her hand was warm and smooth and inviting. As Sansa locked arms with her, her new found friend immediately sent her ladies away, urging them to join her two brothers who were hawking near the east end of the gardens. Hand in hand, the two turned right and followed a less paved path enriched with red roses and daffodils. 

“How did your travels fair?” Margaery asked. “It must have been quite a long trek from the North.”

“Quite long,” Sansa responded as the two passed an orangerie, a large granite edifice protecting fruit trees from chilly nights; giving birth to lemons, oranges, oleander, palms and pomegranates. “Nothing but forest roads to ride through and smaller tents to sleep in.” 

“A necessary trip then,” she mused thoughtfully. “There is something quite simple when it comes to the country, being closer to the earth keeps us noble bloods humble. Keeps us closer to our people. But our trip was not nearly as long as yours, from Highgarden it is just a few weeks travel, but we elected to attain several days before the first feast.” 

“So soon?” 

“Oh yes, House Tyrell is bound to the crown by marriage now, just a shade next to family,” Margaery said with a small smile, but Sansa could sense the subtle warning beneath those words: I have a greater chance than you, do not tread upon my path. “Princess Rhaenys was very eager to see her brother, King Aegon, since her union with my eldest brother. She brought all her black kittens too, so they can be reacquainted once more with the Red Keep.” 

“How do the gardens here compare to the ones in the Reach?” Sansa asked, directing matters away from blood and kings. “I hear they are just as splendid.” 

“You hear right, Lady Sansa,” Margaery said, impressed, now holding onto her arm a little tighter. “Although I would be less inclined to admit its superiority. Flowers come in many forms, but they are all beautiful.” 

“Like this,” she said, directing them to a bush with large, showy blooms ranging in colour and hue. “Lilies, prized, and able to grow into many different colours, under different climates. Commonly loved for its association with rebirth, purity, and devotion.” Margaery picked off a fragrant bright orange one with purple accents and presented it to her. She stood close to her, so close that she could smell oud rose perfume from her neck…so close that she could distinguish her new friends brown dilated pupils catching the sunlight as she tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, “to match your lovely red hair…and your dress –” 

“Lady Margaery,” a walking man called out a distance away in front of them. When he finally reached the pair, the young lanky man with asymmetrical eyebrows bowed slowly before them. “Please pardon my interruption, but Lady Olenna has requested your presence at the southside vista.” 

“That is quite all right, Erryk. You may tell her that I will be there shortly,” she said gently. He bowed graciously and sauntered away. Margaery handed her the lily and spoke up again, looking regretful and sad, “I’m afraid I must leave you now, I have a prior commitment needs my attention. Afternoon tea with my grandmother.” 

_The Queen of Thorns,_ Sansa thought, _the dowager lady of Highgarden...the one who pulls the string._ Instead of leaving to follow her grandmothers manservant, Margaery paused and considered her for a moment, her brown eyes shifting up and down, studying her; from the orange lily in her hands to her violet embroidered dress to the crystal quartz necklace against her throat. 

“Perhaps…,” Margaery said thoughtfully. “You would care to join us. There will be tea and cakes. And my grandmother enjoys seeing a new face just as much as I do.” 

Sansa did not need convincing that the grandmother did indeed enjoy new faces; a new novel mind to interrogate and probe for information, especially a daughter of the north, engaged to the son of a rebel. On several occasions, Littlefinger warned her that all the roses in Highgarden smell sweet, but are just as prickly as the rest. ‘They hide it well,’ he mused, ‘all their sharpest edges are carefully hidden behind her beauty.’ And the sharpest of all was the notorious Queen of Thorns. Sansa had no doubt that this little rose was bringing her in to meet the gardener, who would clip and cut at her to determine whether or not she was friend or foe. 

“I promise she does not bite,” she said chuckled pleasantly – as if she were reading her mind – and extended her hand again for Sansa to take. And Sansa did. Confidently. Surely. _I will show her that all I am is a harmless song bird, and not a weed ready to poison her garden._

Hand in hand, Sansa and Margaery wandered down a south path that led to small gateway riddled with peonies, fig vines and alliums. Through the gates, the top southside courtyard greeted them, affixed with outer walls that contained miniature avian houses that provided shelter for sparrows, pigeons, and swallows to nest and rest. The structures, all aligned in rows, looked like stone palaces fit for the likes of royal fairies and pixies. In one, a common dove cooed at the top of a small tower, vehemently stuffing little twigs inside the open window. 

The courtyard itself was surrounded by hundreds upon hundreds of carefully trimmed red and white roses, filling her nostrils with the strong aroma of velvety musk and cloves. At the centre was a large shelter house pavilion, where half a dozen servants were seen leaving and returning with large platters filled with both hot and cold cuisine, as well as canters of fragrant white wine and boiling hot water. Sitting in the middle of the table – amongst the feast – was an old, dreadfully tiny and gaunt woman with spotted skin, dressed in deep emerald robes. Behind her chair was a fantastic view of the Blackwater Bay, the rose leaves twisting under the bay winds; the salt water air mixing with the potent fragrance of flowers. 

“Ah, there you are,” the old woman barked out after she finished drinking down her tea. She squinted her deep eyes past her granddaughter and onto Sansa, who dutifully followed just a few steps behind. “My dear, there is a red shadow in our midst.” 

“But it is a most welcome one, grandmother,” Margaery answered back. “I was fortunate enough to find her during my morning walk …Lady Sansa Stark, may I present to you my grandmother, Lady Olenna Tyrell.” 

“Lady Sansa Stark…Aha, fortune indeed! Pretty one, you are,” Olenna said, giving her a sharp look before picking apart a piece of blue swiss cheese, stuffing the crumbles into her mouth. The woman had barely any teeth left, so it took her a great deal of time to chew the pieces up enough to speak again. “Long way from home, too. You and your family. How does the south fair for you this next around, child?” 

_This time around,_ Sansa thinks, a little gobsmacked at the question, _she means after Hightower._ The first time around was awful and she knows it. It should not be surprising that the Queen of Thorns would be aware of her troubles in the Reach. House Hightower was Highgarden greatest, and most powerful ally and bannerman. Some lesser lords might even say that it should be the lords of Hightower who should rule the Reach, instead of the Tyrells. Though it was blasphemy to express this yearning openly in the south, it was a credence that Joffrey was particularly fond of entertaining after a few cups of wine filled his veins, much to the encouragement of his dear mother. 

“It fairs very well, my lady,” she said. “The crownlands are quite beautiful, there are no gardens like these in the north.” 

“Mhm, no need to be demure, child,” Olenna responded, speaking louder than necessary. “I am far, far too old to listen to all that simpering and bowing your septa taught you when you were a little girl. We are women! Save the courtesies for the ears of all those foolish lords and ladies huddled up in that stifling great hall, waiting to kiss the shoes of a king that does even intend to hold a witan today. I’d rather look at these flowers then stare at that godsforsaken, loathsome-looking throne. Pay me all the coin in the world, and I would not seat on that piece of junk!” 

“Grandmama,” Margaery said sternly, trying to prevent her grandfather from ranting on any further, but her efforts to silence the queen of thorns proved to the futile. Olenna simply carried on as if she did not hear, spreading blackberry jam on the last portion of cheese on her plate. “If you ask me, the whole idea of a tournament is insufferable. Men running around with horses, holding sticks and sharp swords, bloodying themselves all in the name of coin and glory, and us noblewomen are meant to swoon at their arrogance and tomfoolery. I will not! As if they don’t spend every other waking moment of their miserable lives sniffing out wealth and fame. And they say that we are the inferior sex.” 

At that, Sansa snickered a little. “Ah, the lady smiles,” Olenna smirked as she picked up a insignificant amount of cheese and jam and popped it into her mouth. “See, my dear, Lady Sansa agrees with me.” 

“She is being kind,” Margaery scolded softly, sitting down next to her grandmother. “You are taking advantage of her good nature.” 

“Nonsense!” Olenna trilled out, nodding her head at Sansa in approval. She flicked her fingers and a servant nearby came to refill her cup of tea, the damp leaves from the pot smelled like red hibiscus and mint. “I know a quick mind when I see one. Have some tea, or wine if that is more to your liking. And please do sit dear, all this standing about makes me anxious.” 

Sansa took her place on the other side. The meal set out before the three seemed excessive for three grown women, but Sansa’s mouth watered at the sight of it. On the rounded glass table, each and every spread imaginable was laid out in tiny silver jars; a decadent hazelnut nougat, ginger lemon twists, creamy sage butter, fruit jams, and whipped herbed soft cheeses. The charcuterie had prosciutto lined along the edges, with cured meats that included crudo, capicola, salame feline, sopressata, and cooked hams sprinkled with salt. In a jar placed next to the meat platter was a mixture of green and purple olives, as well as a enormous bowl of frozen grapes. The sweets were abundant as well; fruit custard tarts, madeleines, lemon cakes, chocolate mousse, sponged butterscotch, toffee dumplings with a dollop of cream, and rice pudding. And finally a decanter of wine in the middle, with a circle of steaming warm breads fresh from the oven. The table was set so beautifully, and the foods looked so tantalizing and delicious that she hardly knew where to begin. 

“Perhaps a lemon cake, my dear,” said Olenna, motioning to the square platter next to her. “I hear that they are a favourite of yours.” 

Sansa wanted to inquire _who_ told her such a thing…but instead let statement fly above her head. “I was fortunate to see Ser Loras Tyrell win in jousting at the Riverrun tournament not too long ago,” Sansa began, taking two white powdered lemon cakes from a shining serving tower engraved with filigree. “I have never seen a match end so quickly.” 

“Oh, but it will be matched one day,” the old woman conceded, prattling on. “There are too many men in this world for one to triumph over all. One can only hope that my silly grandson will learn this lesson one day, and pursue more useful endeavors as opposed to knocking men off horses.” 

“Now, now…Loras brings our house great honour with his skill,” Margaery disagreed pleasantly. “He serves us well, we should be grateful to him.” 

Olenna ignored this congenial comment, facing Sansa, she said, “we hear your younger brother Brandon Stark is in the capital as well. Will he compete?” 

“No,” she answered. “He is a skilled rider and an accomplished swordsman for his age, but it would bring our mother great displeasure to see him compete. He does hope to be knighted under Ser Brynden Tully.” 

“The Blackfish!” she remarked. “Now that is a privilege. I’ve danced once or twice with the man before my poor old knees started to buckle beneath me; good character, forthright too – not a man to flower his words.” 

“I hear that Lord Tytos Blackwood will host your brother until his daughter comes of age to marry,” Margaery interjected as she cut off a slab of cooked ham. “Will Ser Brynden accompany him there, then?” 

“Yes,” Sansa replied. “I believe so. He left the Eyrie not too long ago under the orders of my grandfather, Lord Hoster, to be my brothers patron and mentor.” 

“I know Bethany Blackwood to be a pretty young maiden. Your brother ought to be pleased to have such a fine path ahead of him.” 

_It will be a fine path,_ she thinks, _if he can lose his love for our brothers new wife._

“I hear there is some nasty business in the Vale with your aunt, Lysa Arryn,” Olenna said, swatting away the discussion of Bran and Bethany as if it was an irritating fly. It was clear that news of her brothers engagement was of little interest to her. “Is it true, dear?” 

“Grandmama!” Margaery hissed out. 

“Oh pish,” said Olenna, waving the concerns away. “Three noble women sit in a garden, and you expect us not to gossip like a couple of fishwives. Are we to converse about the weather for the next hour, and what dresses to wear for tomorrows end?” 

“That is sensitive,” Margaery cautioned the old woman seriously. “It is not our place, and I am quite sure that Lady Sansa would be unwilling to speak on family matters.” 

“I know nothing,” Sansa lied. “Only that her son – my cousin, Robert, is to be Stannis Baratheon’s ward in the stormlands – ” 

“And Lord Yohn Royce rules in his stead,” Olenna finished for her. “What a peculiar situation, indeed. But your own engagement is as peculiar as they come. I must admit that I was quite shocked to hear it. A wolf running into the sea to swim with a kraken. A lady to marry her lords former hostage. Now that is a strange story, truly.” 

“Not to me,” she responded. Another lie. “I am quite content with match. I have known Theon since I was an infant. Unlike many noble ladies who wed strangers, I am familiar with my intended.” 

“An intended with over four hundred warships, and thousands of galleys at his beck and call. More than our bannerman can call on,” the old woman said, her tone growing more and more serious. Almost hostile. “One whose uncle raided small farming villages in our kingdom before your suitor and his sister crushed their fleet on the open sea…You see, dear, the krakens are stronger than ever, and over the years, they have made a muck of our gardens, crushing our roses into dust.” 

It was a threat if she ever heard one. And Sansa heard many during her stay at Hightower. Perhaps more nuanced than the ones Joffrey used to give to her, but a threat nonetheless. “So I must say,” Olenna continued, her tone shifting into softness. “How comforting it that an old woman like me can rest more easily at night, knowing that the ironborn have prepared to put their axes away, and finally settle their bones into the mainlands….Tell me, your husband to be has spent more time in the north than on the islands, he must not adhere to the Old Way, then? I should think he favours the old gods.” 

In truth, Theon Greyjoy had never been a devout man. He stood before the weirwood tree but he never prayed to it, and the only Stark in Winterfell that visited to sept was her mother. For her father’s former ward, his faith rested within the hunt, predation was his religion; with the trees surrounding him and steels arrows to point at an frightened animal. 

“The Old Way died with Balon Greyjoy,” Sansa assured them. The third lie. There was no way of knowing for sure if her new betrothed enjoyed raiding and pillaging lands. So far, there was been no Westerosi bloodshed, but she needed to assuage the belief that the ironborn were a threat for a long as she was associated with them. “Theon is not a raider.” 

“Mhmm, the troublesome thing about tradition, is that it often has a way of preserving when it comes to men, even if it appears to be absent in their minds.” Olenna added thoughtfully. “Your marriage will bring a new era for the ironborn, may it be a peaceful one.” 

The queen of thorns brought her cup to salute her, and Margaery followed suite. “Thank you, my lady.” The gesture was welcoming enough, but somewhat Sansa felt as though the salutations were hollow and lacking. A conditional deal; transactional and solely based on her promise of armistice from the ironborn. She could only hope that she convinced them otherwise; let her impending engagement mask the fact that she planned to court the king instead. 

“My lady,” Erryk interjected as the three ladies sipped their drinks. “Pardon the interruption.” 

“I will not,” Olenna said. “Speak!” 

“You had wished to be informed of great h – “ 

“Are you a motley or a servant?” She interrupted harshly. He winced but stood frozen in place. “I do not need my words repeated back to me. What news?” 

“Lady Cersei Hightower has arrived with her three children,” he sputtered out.

 _No,_ Sansa thought, her heart quickening, _no, no, no, no…_

“Is she here, in the gardens?” 

“Yes,” he answered. “She and her daughter have just passed through the entrance foyer.” 

“Fetch her now. Just Cersei. No need to trouble that sweet daughter of hers.”

Sansa felt lightheaded at the thought of Cersei joining them. No, she needed to leave and now before the wretched lioness approached. Keeping her fingers tucked between her knees to hide them from shaking, she muttered under her breath that she should leave. Margaery gave her a look of concern, but before she could tell her to go the old woman silenced her. “No need for that, child. It is only a small cat who believes herself to be a lion.” 

_She is a lion,_ she thought in her head, _and she’ll tear you apart if you let her._

“Lady Cersei Hightower.” 

“You have strayed very far from Oldtown,” said Olenna, as a strikingly beautiful, golden haired woman slowly entered the grand vista. Accompanied by two of her own guards, Cersei Hightower was just as terrifying as ever; dressed in a low cut burgundy satin garment that revealed the fullness of her breasts, along with a jeweled tiara affixed in her hair. 

Cersei clasped her hands tightly together and made her way over to the three ladies. Sansa could feel her heart thrumming wildly in her chest, but the woman gave her no notice, and regarded the two Tyrell women instead. 

“As did many houses over Westeros, Lady Olenna,” she said, her voice cordial and low and deep. “An invitation from the queen mother to celebrate the kings name-day is hardly one that can be refused.” 

“Yet I see no other Tyrell bannerman from the Reach present but you,” Olenna countered. “I know you to be an educated women, Lady Cersei, is it an overestimation on my part to believe that you would have the capacity read the orders laid out before you from my son Mace, and follow his instructions.” 

“The Warden of the South still kneels before his king,” she smirked. “We are all bound to obey the Protector of the Realm. Oldtown holds the Citadel, its origins lost to time itself. The king must be acquainted with its new liege lord.” 

“Then perhaps my other granddaughter, Lady Desmera, your sons new betrothed, ought to become acquainted with the king as well. I hear he has a special penchant for freckled ladies.”

At this, Cersei frowned. “My son and your granddaughter have already spoken their holy vows before the Starry Sept…would it not be inappropriate to present her here, after she has been sworn to my son.” 

_I spoke my holy vows with Joffrey too,_ Sansa thought, _in the same spot. At the Starry Sept._ He kissed her so softly then; the last time she felt his lips on her skin without experiencing pain. But they didn’t last. She doubted that Desmera Redwyne would fare any better than her. 

“There are many women betrothed that are attending the king’s tournament, my dear,” Olenna responded, “Yet your very presence here is inappropriate and unwanted.” 

“A king can summon a queen, even if she is intended for another.” 

“Not without penance.” 

“It will be hard to tame this dragon king to one women,” Cersei pondered aloud, her voice pouring out venom. “Takes a certain type of woman to be queen.” 

“One with a lions heart, no doubt,” Olenna quipped, speaking the intention behind the Hightower’s disobedient trip to the capitol. Cersei wanted Myrcella Hightower on the throne, not Margaery Tyrell. “’And so he spoke…’ tis a pity that your great father and brother aided the queen regent in taking back the throne from the Mad King all those years ago, and yet your great house has still not been rewarded. Even your brother Ser Jaime seems ever so reluctant to wed his own dragon princess.” 

“Perhaps our payment will come sooner than you think. Now if you’ll excuse me, ladies. I must return to my daughter. She is quite tired from our journey. But I assure you…she is looking forward to meeting the king.” 

“Have you forgotten your manners along with your literacy?!” Olenna barked. “You have not yet addressed Lady Sansa Stark at since you’ve come to visit us, she is our most honoured guest.” 

“It is good to see you again, my lady,” Cersei spoke with forged amiability, forcing the words out with a clenched jaw. “You look very well.” 

_Of course I look well, now that your son is no longer able to lay his hands on me._

“Lady Sansa was just about to attest to her experience as a guest in Hightower,” Olenna insisted, her mouth settling into a deep smirk. “We were most curious to hear how your son was able to charm such a beautiful creature. Must have been that grand lion mane of his…all those golden curls.” 

“It is unfortunate that my son and Lady Sansa were forced to part ways,” Cersei spat out, her hands clenching up, showing the whites of her knuckles; several shining golden rings resting on her fingers. “A fathers love will cling to a story – even if it is a lie – in order to hold on to their daughters for just a little longer…for they are so precious and so fragile. So prone to breaking.” 

“The ties of family are strong, lady,” Sansa spoke up suddenly, words flowing quick and hot, her rage emboldening her, meeting with Cersei’s haunting emerald eyes. Her father and his reputation would not be trampled in the dirt. “I am blessed indeed that nothing in the world has interfered with our bounds.” 

If looks could kill, she would have been dead. The moment that Sansa uttered those words, she bemoaned the choice to do so immediately. _Oh you silly fool,_ she bemoaned to herself, _stupid, stupid girl._ She had said too much…the exact words written in the stolen letter. And Cersei knew it. She could see it in her eyes. 

“Well spoken,” she bite back, her white teeth visible. “The ties of blood run deeper than any marriage or friendship. It is good to see you so well, little dove, our household misses you. You must tell me more of your life since you left us. We will speak soon…I am sure of it.” 

Cersei swiftly fled, her stride faster and quicker than before. The two guardsmen trailed her, their chainmail and heavy booted armour chinking and clinging as they went. 

“All of you,” Olenna ordered to the servants. “Leave us now. Go! Shoo.” 

“My dear,” she continued, taking a deep breath. It was sour and somewhat hoarse, and she could smell a bit of pungent cheese and jam off the old woman’s tongue. The footmen and maids were scurrying out, leaving pots and dishes on tables at the side. The vista felt quite again, with nothing but the sound of the gentle ocean lulling great waves towards the cliffs. “I will inquire this only once, and I ask on the behalf of my granddaughter, Desmera, who will marry Joffrey Hightower within the next few months. The whole realm knows of your broken engagement with the man, and the whispers are less than favourable. Hightower belongs to Highgarden, and I want to know if these tales are spoken with a true tongue.” 

_This is what they brought me here for,_ Sansa thought, _to squeal on their bannerman like a simple swine._

“House Tyrell and House Redwyne will know you to be a great and worthy friend if you tell us the truth,” Margaery spoke up in a diplomatic voice. But it would not matter much if she was a friend to those great houses if she were six feet under, rooting away in the crypts. “Desmera is a very dear cousin. I picked flowers with her as a child, we shared the same septa. She is a gentle lady who just wishes for a good husband. But is he a good man?” 

_If I tell them, Cersei will know,_ she argued with herself, _and I have already given away too much._ If she told them the truth, surely they would break the betrothal? And then surely Joffrey and Cersei would blame her. Sansa’s presence at this afternoon meal was enough for the woman to point the finger. Joffrey would do more than just point a finger, he would point his crossbow. Aim it her in the middle of the night, when everyone was sleeping. Just as he did before…However, the consequences of dishonesty were just as severe: another poor young girl would eventually be brutalized and her father’s word would be questioned by noble lords and ladies. 

“I promise you, child,” Olenna insisted in a whisper, sensing the young girls turmoil. “You will not be held responsible. I want to protect my grandchild. I want to know what kind of wickedness I am dealing with.”

“For the sake of her,” Sansa spat out, wanting desperately to say what needed to be said so she could never speak them again. “It is true. All of it. He is a demon disguised as a man. Save her from his hands, _please._ ” 

“I knew it,” said Olenna decidedly. “I could smell the filth under his smooth mouth.” 

“It must have been very hard to say. I thank you, Lady Sansa,” said Margaery. Her brown eyes were warm when she spoke and her tone seemed gentle and sincere. “From the bottom of our hearts, we thank you.”

* * *

When the afternoon tea in the vista came to a close, and the evening settled at last, the final great houses arrived and colonized their assigned wings. All scattered from the the north, the westernlands, and the riverlands. From the Vale and from Dorne. The Red Keep was brimming with life from all corners of the realm. 

But not a single soul saw the king; lords whispered of offense, while foreign spiders of all shapes and sizes scoured the halls and corridors of the castle, searching high and low for dragons with no success. 

King Aegon had never left his chambers since the houses arrived, and neither did his aunt and uncle. 

Margaery had walked Sansa back from the garden vista, making promise after promise that they would be the best of companions during the tournament; they would go riding together in the Kingswood, practice hawking with her brothers and she would show her the best parts of the palace gardens, “properly, this time,” she said, insistent. She even offered that the two dress in preparation for the grand masquerade. “I’m to be a red fox,” she giggled. “A creature of mischief and strife. May it be enough to tempt our dragon king.” 

_I dearly hope that it won’t. Because becoming queen is the only thing that can save me now. The lions will be after me soon._

Under different circumstances, Sansa would have relished the sort of companionship that Margaery was offering her, but all her promises melded together into a jabber that she didn’t have any strength to interpret. She had spilled the beans, and worse, Cersei knew it. Now, all Sansa wanted was to retire for the night. To lock the doors behind her so no one could disturb her. Hide and sleep without any dreaming at all. No krakens. No lions. No crossbows. And no dying direwolves. 

As they reached her room, Sansa civilly declined her proposal to prepare together for the first feast, remorsefully claiming that she had already planned to do so with her own sister. But the rest of the offers were accepted; the hawking, the riding, and the dancing. Margaery beamed graciously, said she would have her own ladies call upon her tomorrow and at last, bid her well. When the two finished embracing, Sansa finally took refuge inside the vacant space of her dark, unlit bedchamber. 

After noticing that no maids were tending her room at the moment, Sansa broke down her shield and let out a heavy breath, and locked the doors behind her. In a panic, she also took a nearby wooden chair and propped it against the copper handles. When she finally felt content that no other human being would be able to penetrate the doors and enter, she let out a heavy sob and fell to the floor. 

The Hightowers were here. Joffrey was here, and she had brought the letter here too…and there was no escaping it.

In a fit of despair, she crawled to the desk next to her four-postered bed and pulled the last drawer out. Frantic, she began emptying out the contents in the storage compartment, throwing them to the stone floors; silk and woolen scarves, strings, ribbons, notes, and brooches. Sansa dung until she got to the very bottom, the smooth wooden surface. With shaking hands she pushed down at its end, and the board lifted up to reveal the red-headed doll. She turned it over on its back, where a straight line of seamed stitching stretched. Still heaving and crying, she broke the threads and forced her fingers inside the figures shearling filling to find a thin piece of parchment folded neatly into a square, coated in a red wax in the shape of a tall tower, high above the sky. 

Carefully taking it out, Sansa unfolded the note with shaking hands and read the letter once more: 

__

_Jaime,_

__

_The deed is done. No more will the Blessed interfere with our bonds. Hightower is ours. Come to me now._

__

_Cersei_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that this took so long to post. I know there were a few of you might have been wondering if I abandoned it. This was a very long chapter, and I think I didn't anticipate it taking so long to write - but here we are. It's a long one. So I hope it satisfies. 
> 
> I'm very anxious to see what you guys think of this chapter. 
> 
> I'll be responding to all the kind comments left on my last chapter now. 
> 
> \- A


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